


Together We Ratify the Silence

by capsicleonyourleft



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Big Bang Challenge, DCBB 2013, Dean/Cas Big Bang Challenge 2013, Depression, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, allusions to war
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-25
Updated: 2013-10-25
Packaged: 2017-12-30 10:16:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 34,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1017396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/capsicleonyourleft/pseuds/capsicleonyourleft
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>War photojournalist Castiel Novak has spent his career reporting from the front lines, chasing one disaster after another. World-weary and disillusioned, he doesn't know a life outside of chaos and turmoil, impervious to feeling much of anything. A chance encounter introduces him to Dean Winchester, a police officer trying his best to lead a normal life post-military. The two men are quick to bond over their shared struggles, forming a strong friendship that helps Castiel remember there is a myriad of emotions for him to experience. But Castiel has spent most of his life observing rather than living, and he’s not certain he can stop running.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>[DCBB 2013]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Together We Ratify the Silence

**Author's Note:**

> **Pairing:** Dean/Castiel, past Balthazar/Castiel and Dean/Lisa, Sam/Sarah, Jo/Charlie  
>  **Spoilers:** None. AU.  
>  **Warnings:** mentions of witnessing and experiencing war atrocities; PTSD (anxiety and panic attacks, flashbacks, nightmares, dissociation); depression; using alcohol as a coping mechanism; John Winchester’s crappy parenting; explicit sexual content.  
>  **Disclaimer:** I don’t own Supernatural or its characters. No copyright infringement is intended. Title is from Neruda’s _Love Sonnet IX_.
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you to my amazing artist, Omens, for the beautiful artwork accompanying this fic. It has exceeded all of my expectations and I am so grateful. Please check out the art post [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1017319) and leave praise!
> 
> Thank you also to my amazing team of betas: [motheatenmusicalbrocade](http://motheatenmusicalbrocade.tumblr.com/), [ageofdiscovery](http://ageofdiscovery.livejournal.com/) and [rocketgirl2](http://rocketgirl2.livejournal.com/). I couldn't have done this without your support and feedback, and your help has been invaluable to me!

 

 

  

The ratty pair of Converse on his feet is caked with splatters of blood and mud, a gruesome Rorschach of lost lives and human atrocities. Castiel examines the ugly splotches with clenched fists, trying to remember how they got there, who they belong to, the exact moment they wound up on his shoes. He’d spent the entire flight and cab ride in the same manner. As always, the task is impossible, and he lets out a self-deprecating sigh before stepping out of his shoes, leaving them by the duffle bag he dropped on the floor. Opening his fist and ignoring the pain in his palm from where the keys bit into his skin, he hangs them on their designated hook.

His apartment is as bleak as Castiel remembered it: walls unmarked and unremarkable, new furniture unused. It was bought at his sister’s urging, despite his own reservations. “It’ll be good for you,” she claimed, eyes filling with so much hope that Castiel couldn’t bring himself to voice his scepticism. “Having a place to call home, to ground you—you deserve that, Cas.” Anna’s one of the smartest people he knows, but that particular assertion had been incredibly reductive. He’s owned the place for over two years now, but there is nothing to distinguish it as his, no signifiers to indicate it as a home—it’s nothing but a collection of steel and plaster he bears no attachment to. After three weeks in dilapidated motels and flimsy tents, the room he steps into is too spacious, the navigation it requires too complex for Castiel to master. The walls feel confining, trapping him with nothing but his thoughts for company.

This is the moment he hates the most. Standing in the dark, mute hallway, there is no distraction. Castiel is used to running, and his legs have always carried him the required distance—away from explosions and gunshots, then back into the danger as the job requires. The adrenaline always overrides the fear, loud and buzzing in his ears, feeding his muscles. It is when he keeps still that he can’t escape; it is the silence that retains the capacity to send him crumbling.

The linoleum creaks under his feet as he pads his way around the apartment, following the rhythmic hum of the refrigerator until he reaches the kitchen. Light spills into the room when he pulls the fridge door open. He knows he won't find much there; the action is nothing but a learned habit, a pretense of normalcy Castiel is desperate to uphold. His years as a war photojournalist have taught him that stocking his fridge with much of anything merely results in wasted food and a guilty conscience. Predictably, all he finds is an expired carton of orange juice, five water bottles, and a can of Dr. Pepper. Annoyed, he shuts the door, ignoring his grumbling stomach.

He hesitates at the entrance to the bathroom, hitting the light switch with trepidation. He grabs the sink with shaking hands, the surface cold to the touch as he examines his reflection in the mirror. The sight that greets him is ghastly: sallow skin; sweaty strands of hair matted to his forehead; dark, puffy rings under his bloodshot eyes. Castiel has always been told that his impassive expression makes him the ideal reporter, but he tends to disagree. He remains neutral during political panels, maintains a professional attitude during duress, but his truths are reflected in his eyes; he’s surprised he hasn’t been called out on it, expected the critics to pounce on what he assumed to be such an obvious shortcoming. He lifts a hand to his unshaven cheek, following the sharp cut of his jaw, the rough hairs scraping the skin of his palm.

No matter how often he is proven wrong, Castiel always expects that a change in geographical location will manifest itself physically, reflecting the parts of himself he’s left overseas. Instead, it’s always the same haggard face staring back at him, morphing into a stranger the longer and closer he looks. “If you wake up at a different time, at a different place, could you wake up as a different person?” Palahniuk wrote, and Castiel worries that yes, you can, and probably do.

The sweat-soaked clothes he’s been wearing for the past three days cling to his skin uncomfortably, and Castiel is relieved to be rid of them as he steps into the shower and turns on the hot water. The ambient steam reminds him of clouds of smoke. He’s only under the spray for a few seconds, but his skin is scalded raw and pink by the time he turns the cold water tap, neck and shoulders tender from the burn. He leans his hands against the tiles, watching the spray carry dirt away from his skin, washing it down the drain. He scrubs his skin with tenacity—another pointless ritual that never gets the job done—before wrapping a towel around his waist and walking into the bedroom.

The queen-sized bed is meticulously made, the sight of it tempting and inviting. Despite his bone-deep exhaustion, Castiel knows he won't be able to sleep. A headache works its way to his temples, spreading to the base of his skull and causing his vision to blur. His mind is overworked and chaotic, going a mile a minute, the noise in his head unbearably incongruent with the oppressive silence of the room. The images that flash before his eyes are bright and vivid, and Castiel wonders if they’ve been etched onto his retinas. He presses the balls of his palms to his eyes until he can’t see anything but white spots. When his vision clears, he walks up to his closet, snatching the first t-shirt he finds along with a pair of faded jeans and putting them on.

In the living room, he grabs his phone and starts dialing Balthazar’s number. It’s only when he enters the last digit that he remembers they had broken up three months ago. He chews on his bottom lip as he considers his options, thumb hovering over the touchscreen. The split was amicable, and he’s positive Balthazar would accept the call despite the late hour. It’d be nice to hear his voice again. Still, Castiel isn’t certain he’s ready to attempt friendship, and starting it in a moment of vulnerable desperation is likely imprudent.

A quick glance at the clock tells him it’s nearly 11 p.m.—just before 8 p.m. on the west coast, then. He considers calling Anna, but quickly reprimands himself for such a selfish thought. His sister spends her working hours dealing with people’s mental crises; the last thing he wishes is to burden her further. He knows what she’d say, anyway, since every conversation about his work leads her to the same conclusion. _You should see someone, Cas_. She’s not wrong, in all likelihood, and it’s not that he hasn’t considered it; he’s just not sure he can go through with it. He can’t comprehend how he would explain himself to someone even if he tried, doesn’t think he could articulate all that he’s witnessed. How do you describe a warzone in the comfort of an air-conditioned office?

 

 

 

 

*

 

 

The photography section of the bookstore is small enough that Castiel almost doesn’t notice it in his haste. Despite the fact he only came in to pick up a gift for Anna in the psychology section, he can’t help but make the detour. There’s only one other person in the narrow aisle, and Castiel brushes past him, scanning the shelves until he finds what he’s looking for. _War Photography: The Work of Carver Milton_. He pulls down his father’s book, the record of work he’d dedicated and lost his life to, fingers trembling over the hard cover. It’s been a few years since he’s looked through his own copy, but the weight of the pages is familiar in his hands. His heart races as he flips through the pages, breaths becoming laboured. Despite his familiarity with the images, the sight of them is staggering, and he leans against the shelf at chest level.

When Castiel lands on the iconic image from Vietnam, the one that is forever associated with his father’s name, a rush of nausea grips his stomach. It’s black-and-white, depicting a clearing, a plume of smoke in the background. Soldiers running toward the camera, away from the danger, stepping over the bodies of their fallen comrades.

It’s just a photograph. It does a measly job of capturing the terror and agony of war, Castiel suddenly realizes; it doesn’t carry the sound of dying people, the sensation of stinging eyes and burning lungs produced by the violent smoke. Castiel, however, hears and feels these things all the same, the sensations only intensifying as he flips through the photos. The colours blur together and the prints become fuzzy. The book slides out of Castiel’s hands, landing on the floor with a heavy thump.

All he can hear are gunshots, bullets flying past him, lodging themselves haphazardly into the flesh of people around him. He can feel the sun’s scorching heat on his back, sweat making his clothes cling to his skin. His legs are tired and he doesn’t think he can run anymore, but the adrenaline in his system propels him forward as people wail and collapse all around him. There’s the unmistakable sound of an explosion somewhere behind him, and Castiel turns to look past his shoulder as the flames engulf the sky. The clouds of smoke are thick and heavy, but the fire is almost blindingly bright. The sight roots him to the spot, and he wonders if anyone’s survived the blast, if he should turn around and try to look for them. The smell of burning flesh is fast spreading and overwhelming, making him taste sulphur on his tongue. A strong hand grips his bicep and drags him forward. “They’re all dead!” the soldier—Ronnie, Castiel thinks—yells. “Keep running!” And Castiel does. He runs and doesn’t look back, but the smoke creeps down his throat and consumes his lungs so that he can’t breathe. He can’t breathe he can’t breathe—

Something cold presses against his skin and Castiel looks down to find a bottle of water in his hand, feels a strong, grounding hold on his shoulder. “Hey, hey,” a rough voice calls, but it’s distant and he can’t place it. “Wherever’s your mind right now, you’re not there, okay? You’re not there, man. You’re safe.”

His surroundings slowly come back into focus, and Castiel looks down at the grey carpet beneath his feet. He’s at a bookstore. There are no gunshots and no dying bodies. The buzzing in his ears dies down until he can hear the soft pop music playing in the background.

“Hey, you with me?” the voice asks, and Castiel registers a finger pointing in his peripheral vision. “I want you to describe that ugly-ass chair over there for me, okay? Can you do that?”

Castiel looks up until he sees a worn armchair in the corner of the aisle, wedged in the narrow space between shelves. “It’s green. And square. And stained. It looks like people have done unseemly things on that chair. It’s extremely unhygienic and it probably shouldn’t be here.”

There’s an amused chuckle above his head, and Castiel realizes he is bent at the waist in front of the bookshelf, gripping a mid-shelf with one hand. The stranger is standing to Castiel’s right, his hand still on his shoulder, and he must’ve placed the water in his other hand.

“C’mon, let’s get you out of here,” the man says and doesn’t wait for an answer before guiding him along.

Outside, Castiel breathes in a lungful of fresh air. His knees are still shaking and his body feels so weak he’s afraid he might collapse. Instead, Castiel doubles over and retches into a nearby trashcan. A sure, comforting hand is placed on his shoulder, staying there until the spasms leave his body.

Embarrassed but feeling somewhat better, Castiel wipes his mouth and faces the stranger. He must look pathetic, and he can only imagine what this stranger is probably thinking.

“It’s okay, man,” he says, thrusting the bottle of water back into Castiel’s hand, though it’s no longer as cold. “Here, drink this.”

Grateful, Castiel accepts it, the water alleviating the burning in his throat. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” the stranger says with an easy smile. He’s tall and broad-shouldered, with a handsome face and kind eyes. “You okay?” He bites his bottom lip, seeming uncertain of his next words. “Do you want to, um, go sit down somewhere?”

Surprised at the offer, Castiel looks up into the stranger’s eyes. There’s genuine concern in them, and Castiel is both weary and appreciative of the generosity. “I’m fine,” he says with a shrug, trying to hide his shaking hands behind his back.

“Look, I’m sure you have things to do and the last thing you want right now is some strange dude hanging around,” the man says. “But I’d feel a lot better if we could go sit down for a few minutes. What do you say?”

What Castiel really wants is to lock himself in his apartment and drink himself to a stupor, but part of him feels indebted to this stranger, somehow, and he finds himself nodding in agreement.

 

 

They end up in the coffee shop across the street, Castiel sipping a glass of water and trying to calm his nerves. He craves the soothing curl of nicotine on his tongue, fingers twitching, wishing for the comforting weight of a cigarette between them. Castiel puts his hand in his front jean pocket, fingers closing around the pack of Marlboro Reds.

“So,” the stranger starts, fiddling with the lid on his coffee cup. “Has that, um, happened to you before?”

Castiel considers the question. Part of him wants to tell this man it’s none of his business, but he supposes he can allow them both a trace of honesty. Unable to meet this stranger’s eyes, he looks down at his lap when he speaks. “A few times. It’s... never been quite this bad, however.” It’s never gripped him this intensely, never monopolized his control and senses to such a degree.

The man nods like it makes perfect sense. “Where did you serve?”

Castiel freezes at the question. This is the real reason for the generosity he’s been shown—the man thinks he deserves it, has mistaken him for what he’s not. He has no idea Castiel is a fraud. “I’ve never served.” His feet twitch with the desire to run from this stranger, to pretend the past fifteen minutes didn't happen.

The man’s brows draw close together, contorting his face in a confused frown. “Then what...? You know what, never mind. It’s none of my business.”

An awkward silence falls between them. “I’m Dean, by the way. Dean Winchester.”

“Castiel Novak.” A flicker of recognition passes Dean’s features, and Castiel is grateful when he makes no comment. It’s not that Castiel is widely recognizable, but his name is a fairly established one in the news field, and Dean’s reaction makes it clear he’s familiar with it.

“Are you a therapist?” Castiel asks. Episodes like the one he just had are generally not positively received by the public, and it would explain why Dean is not alarmed by his behaviour, how he knew what to do, and the reason he’s sticking around.

The resounding chuckle suggests Dean finds that idea amusing and entirely ridiculous. “Nah, man, I’m a cop.” After a moment, he seems to recognize the real question embedded within the inquiry, and adds, “I, uh—I did two tours with the army.”

The statement says everything, and Castiel looks up in surprise, meeting Dean’s eyes. They hold the contact for a long moment, until Dean averts his gaze, scratching at the back of his nape.

“Here,” Dean says as he pulls his phone out of his pocket, handing it over. “Put your number into my phone.”

It’s Castiel’s turn to frown. “Why?”

“So I can give you a call later, and we’ll grab a beer or two,” Dean says like it’s obvious. “Sound good?”

“You don’t even know me,” Castiel points out, baffled. It’s peculiar enough this stranger has taken the time to assure his safety, but to bother with a follow-up?

Dean smiles, and Castiel is jealous of how easily the gesture comes to him. “That’s sort of the point, isn’t it?”

Castiel stares at Dean, this man who is offering something undecipherable. “I don’t require your pity.”

Dean doesn’t miss a beat. “Good. You’re not going to get it.”

Very little makes sense about the last twenty minutes, but Castiel supposes seeing Dean again won’t hurt, so he programs his number into the phone in his hand.

 

It’s not until Castiel gets home that night that he realizes he never purchased Anna’s book.

 

 

 

 

*

 

 

JFK International Airport is loud and bright, but Castiel has not been this excited to step foot inside it in a very long time. Anna’s plane landed five minutes ago, and he’s impatient for his sister’s arrival. They haven’t seen each other in over a year, having to make due with text messages and long Skype conversations, and Castiel is overwhelmed with how much he’s missed her. The promise of seeing her is the only thing that alleviates the perpetual tightness in his chest.

Another ten minutes go by before he spots her red hair, calling her name and clearing a path through the crowd to reach her.

“Cas!” Anna’s smile is brilliant when she spots him and throws her thin arms around his neck. It feels safe and warm—it feels like _home_ , and he never wants it to end. Her fingers dig into his sides, feeling the prominent protrusion of his ribs. She pulls back with an alarmed frown, cupping his face between her small hands and examining him carefully. Castiel wonders if his exhaustion is so plainly evident despite his efforts to mask it. “Oh, Cas,” she says gently, brushing her thumbs against the puffy rings under his eyes. When she pulls him back into a hug, Castiel clings to his sister, burying his nose in the space between her neck and shoulder, choking back a desperate sob.

 

 

 

Having Anna around makes Castiel feel sane. His sister has always been a force to be reckoned with; she’s always projected confidence and determination, and Castiel finds her self-assuredness grounding and reassuring.

They spend the day following her arrival exploring the new photography exhibit focused on modern female artists at the Museum of Modern Art. It’s one of their only common interests, and they spend a long time admiring the photographs, discussing their interpretations and critiques; Anna has always preferred multi-coloured, vibrant images that inspire her, while Castiel is fond of black-and-whites and monochromatics, imbued with character rather than colour. Despite living in the city that is arguably the centre of the art world, it’s been years since Castiel allowed himself this simple pleasure.

After they take the subway back to Castiel’s neighbourhood, Anna insists they stop at the grocery store by his apartment. Despite Castiel’s protests, she purchases a cartful of food to stock his fridge and pantry with.

“Anna, this is unnecessary,” he comments when they enter the kitchen and she puts a pot with water on the stove. He hoped Anna was here to spend time with him, not to check up on him and take care of him. It’s not her responsibility, and he’s terrified of making her feel closed-in and encumbered.

“It’s about time you have a home-cooked meal,” she says, digging out assorted vegetables from the grocery bags before tossing him a bag of frozen peas. “And don’t think I’ll be doing all the heavy lifting, here. You’re helping.”

They’re mostly silent as they chop vegetables for split pea soup—Castiel’s favourite as a child—but it’s not uncomfortable. Castiel wishes Anna were around more often, that they lived in the same city and nights like these could be more frequent. It’s a silly, selfish desire, but he can’t stop himself from thinking it.

“Cas,” Anna says once they’ve dumped the vegetables into the pot of boiling water. Her face is serious and she bites her lip, hesitant. “How are you, really?”

She’s asking something else entirely, something he’s not willing to discuss, and he hates the concern in her voice. “Why do you ask?”

Anna looks him over, seemingly mulling over her response. “Frankly? Because you look like shit, Cas. You’ve barely been eating, that much is obvious, and when was the last time you even got a proper sleep?”

“I’m fine, Anna.” He has no idea what else to say, cursing the fragility of the human body for showcasing the evidence of his weariness

“You keep saying that,” she says with a sigh. It’s clear she’s not at all convinced, and Castiel stands helplessly by the stove, unsure how to continue—or rather, terminate—the conversation. “Honestly, it’s not all that convincing.”

“I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“Then I guess I’ll start,” she states, leaning her back against the kitchen counter. “I spoke with Balthazar.”

Castiel stiffens at the words, shoulders locking up. Of all the things he expected his sister to say, this wasn’t one of them. “What? When?”

“Four months ago. He called me after you two broke up,” she says.

Castiel fingers close into fists, and he tries his best to keep his tone levelled. “He had no right—”

“I’m glad he told me,” Anna interrupts, her expression a mixture of hurt and irate, “because it seems you weren’t going to.”

“I was working, Anna,” Castiel defends, his own frustration creeping through. “It hardly seems appropriate to phone you from a warzone to discuss the fact my partner left me, don’t you think?”

“You _never_ think it’s appropriate to talk about what you’re going through,” she counters, folding her arms against her chest. “You’re my brother, Cas—I want to know how you’re doing, and help when I can.”

“I don’t need help, Anna,” Castiel insists. “I don’t know what Balthazar told you, but I’m fine. There’s nothing else to say.”

Anna sighs tiredly, rubbing a hand over her forehead. “He called me because he was worried about you, and I guess he knows you well enough to predict you weren’t going to say anything about it.”

The words make Castiel sick to his stomach, and he desperately tries to hide his shaking hands from his sister. The initial anger he felt at Balthazar is gone, replaced with the all-too-familiar guilt he’s carried for the last two years of their relationship. He hates that his sister and Balthazar have spent so much of their time worrying about him, that he’s managed to monopolize sympathy he doesn’t deserve.

“ _I’m_ worried about you,” Anna continues, her voice small and desperate, now. “You’ve been working non-stop for the past God knows how many years, and you’ve not been home for more than a few days for the past two. You can’t keep this up.”

“Anna, you have no cause for concern,” he reasons, uncertain how else to mollify his sister. “I’m here now, aren’t I?”

“Yeah, and if I know you at all, you’ve probably been searching for a new assignment to pick up since you came back from this last one.” It’s the truth, but Anna sounds unhappy with this fact, her words accusatory.

“It’s my job, Anna,” he says weakly, running a hand through his hair. The direction the conversation is headed is entirely too reminiscent of the explosive one they had nearly a decade ago, and a growing knot of fear twists his stomach.

“Yeah, it’s a _job_ , Cas, not something to centre your entire life around!” Her tone is short and frustrated, patience dwindling in the face of his obstinateness. “Why do you have to sacrifice everything for the sake of it?”

“Father gave this job his everything,” he says quietly. The _So should I_ is implied.

“Dad’s dead!” Anna bellows, and Castiel flinches at the words, body going tense. It’s a violent punch he never expected his sister to throw, blindsiding and unlawful. A heavy silence befalls the room, and it feels like there’s a concrete wall between them, solid and indestructible. It’s been a decade since he’s felt this wedge in their relationship—not since those two years they didn’t speak a word to each other—and he believed they’d managed to tear it down. Perhaps, he realizes, it was wishful folly. “I can’t watch you follow in his footsteps.”

“What do you propose? Are you just going to walk out again, cut me out of your life?” It’s harsh and bitter, but he deserves to know. The two years Anna refused to speak to him were the most miserable he can recall; if she’s planning on leaving, _again_ , he has to be prepared.

Anna’s shoulders drop, all traces of anger gone from her demeanour. “No,” she says, her expression twisting to one of regret. Castiel desperately wants to believe her, but he keeps his guard up, refusing to let the relief wash over him. “That was a mistake, and I know that now.”

There’s a sharp, white pain behind Castiel’s brow, the headache causing him to feel weak and tired. He grips the counter behind his back, sagging against it, knuckles going white with the pressure of holding himself up.

“Dad’s dead, Cas,” she repeats, softer now. She comes closer and caresses his cheek with her palm, an unvoiced apology. “But I look at you and I see so much of him, and it scares me. You have no idea how much it scares me.”

Castiel’s eyes widen, searching her expression for any clues. It’s the first time she’s said something like this, and he has no idea what to make of the admission. “Why?”

Anna wraps her arms around her stomach, staring down at the tiled kitchen floor. It’s the first time Castiel recalls seeing his big sister looking so small and vulnerable. “You probably don’t remember this, because you were so young when he passed away,” she finally says. “Or maybe you just don’t want to remember it, I don’t know.”

“Anna, what are you talking about?” There’s desperation to the question, the dread in his gut growing exponentially.

“Dad was miserable, Cas,” she states, looking up to meet his eyes. “He wasn’t around often, we both remember that much, but even when he was... he wasn’t all there. He’d stare at the walls for hours—just sitting eerily still and looking at the same blank spot... and he’d never respond when I asked what he was starting at. It scared me so much.” He watches as his sister swallows around the lump in her throat, struggling to continue. “I remember asking mom why dad was always so sad, and she just whisked me away and said I was too young to understand. Said it was going to be all right,” she chuckles humourlessly. “I think I knew that was a crock of shit even at the age of nine.”

Anna has never before shared these memories with him, and Castiel is both relieved and angry at the fact; he has no idea how to process the new information, never having even considered his father’s emotional well-being. He’d always assumed his father was much stronger than him, that the sleepless nights and lethargy are a deficit belonging to Castiel alone. The memories he has of his father are so few, scattered and hazy, and he struggles to understand where Anna’s words fit in. It makes him rethink much of what he knew—what he erroneously _believed_ —about his parents, Anna, and his entire childhood.

“I’m sorry, Cas,” Anna says, squeezing his shoulder. He’s not sure what the apology is for: for not telling him sooner, or telling him at all. Both seem appropriate. “I just... I want you to get help so it can be different for you.”

Castiel stares at the cracked patch of wall above Anna’s head, the buzzing sound coming from the refrigerator blending with the ringing in his ears to create crackling notes of static. The room is colder than it had been a mere minute ago, somehow, and he fights to suppress a shiver.

“Please, Cas,” Anna pleads, big hazel eyes watering, and Castiel feels an answering moisture building in his own. “We’ve already lost everyone. I can’t lose you, too.”

Unable to see her so distressed, he reaches for his sister and pulls her against his chest, tucking her head under his chin. She clings to the embrace, and they stay like that for a long, long time.

“I’ll think about it,” Castiel finally murmurs against her hair, lips dry and throat tight. He pretends not to notice the wet streaks his sister’s face leaves on his shirt.

 

 

 

 

*

 

 

The establishment Dean asked to meet in is one Castiel hasn’t heard of before, but he manages to find it with five minutes to spare. Three weeks have gone by since they first met, and Castiel honestly did not expect to hear from Dean again. To his surprise, Dean had texted him early this morning—unnervingly early, though Castiel had been wide awake—and Castiel reluctantly agreed to meet him for a drink.

It isn’t incredibly crowded inside _The Roadhouse_ , though it’s certainly decently populated. The opening chords to _It’s A Long Way to the Top_ start playing as he surveys his surroundings. The majority of the space is occupied by a large, U-shaped bar island with a granite finish, though there are chairs and tables scattered throughout the room, made from dark wood. The lights are dimmed to enhance the antique look of the furniture. There are a couple of empty stools by the bar, and Castiel walks over to claim them.

“Hey,” the bartender greets as soon as he’s settled, and Castiel nods in response. She’s a petite, pretty blonde, with a smile that is both friendly and calculating. “What can I get you?”

“Water, please,” he asks. “I’m expecting someone.”

“Sure thing,” she says, filling a clean glass with tap water before putting it down in front of him. “We don’t usually get many new faces around here,” she comments while cleaning up condensation rings left on the counter.

Castiel’s unsure of how to respond, so he stays quiet. She studies him carefully before moving on to serve one of the other patrons.

When fifteen minutes go by with no sign of Dean, Castiel gets up to leave. Dean walks in as he’s putting on his coat, scanning the room before spotting Castiel and heading over in his direction. He moves through the bar comfortably, blending in seamlessly with his faded flannel and leather jacket; Castiel feels out of sorts in his plain blue sweater and black jeans.

“Sorry I’m late, man,” Dean says when he reaches the bar. “Watch ran late, got stuck with some paperwork. Did you order?”

Castiel shakes his head. “I was waiting for you.”

“In that case,” Dean says as he claims the stool to Castiel’s left, “Drinks are on me.”

Castiel is about to object when Dean calls, “Hey, Jo!” in the direction of the bartender. She comes over after she finishes pouring a drink for another client.

“Hey, Dean,” she returns. “You know this guy?” she lifts her chin in Castiel’s direction, giving him another once-over.

“Yeah, Castiel’s cool,” Dean says, which seems to mollify her. “Can we get a couple of beers? Draft.”

A moment later, they are presented with two tall mugs of beer, foam gathered at the top. “Cheers,” Dean clinks their glasses together before taking a long sip.

“You must frequent this establishment quite regularly to be on a first-name basis with the bartender,” Castiel comments once Jo is out of earshot. It occurs to him the comment might be perceived as rude, but Dean merely chuckles.

“I’ve known Jo since she was in diapers,” he explains, taking another gulp from his beer. “We practically grew up together.”

Castiel nods. “She doesn’t seem to like me very much.”

Dean laughs. “She’s just cautious, man. Just means you’ll have to come back so she can see you’re not all that bad.”

It sounds an awful lot like an invitation, and Castiel has no idea why Dean is extending it. “Why are you doing this?”

Dean’s brows draw into a frown. “Doing what?”

“This,” Castiel gestures between them. “Befriending a stranger.”

“Isn’t that how people usually stop being strangers?” he comments, and Castiel supposes he has a point. “Is it really that weird?” There’s uncertainty in the question, the cocky confidence slipping away. “Look, if you want me to fuck off—”

“That’s not what I mean,” Castiel hurries to say. While Dean’s affability is foreign, it’s certainly not unwelcome. Castiel doesn’t have many friends—he has none, to be precise—and his social skills are somewhat rusty. “It’s just—most people wouldn’t bother.”

“Yeah, well,” Dean says, “I’m not most people.” The statement is meant to be comforting, but there’s a note of self-deprecation in it, an implication lingering behind the words Castiel can’t quite put his finger on.

They lapse into a terse silence, and Castiel wonders what he’s supposed to say next. In a way, this meeting feels like an interview, and while Castiel has ample experience with those, he feels lost. He knows when and how to probe for information, how to pithily report the necessary facts, but Dean is uncharted territory he has no idea how to begin examining.

Finally, Castiel asks the question that’s bothered him since they met. “How did you know?” When Dean gives him a puzzled look, Castiel adds, “That day in the bookstore. How did you know?” He hopes it’s enough to make Dean understand the question, because he refuses to name the event that transpired.

Dean sighs and downs the rest of his beer before responding. “You dropped your book.”

Castiel startles. He has no recollection of this. “What?”

“The book you were looking at,” Dean explains, “You dropped it. It opened when it landed, and I saw one of the pictures when I came to check what was going on. It wasn’t hard to figure out after that. PTSD is pretty—”

“I don’t have PTSD,” Castiel says hotly, heart pounding against his ribcage. He has no right to be throwing that word around, stealing experiences that do not belong to him.

“Okay,” Dean says simply, though the slight arch to his eyebrows betrays his surprise at the outburst. “Anyway, that’s—uh, that’s how I knew.”

Castiel doesn’t know how to respond, his fists clenching on top of the bar. “You were in the military,” he remembers, replaying the conversation they’d had at the cafe in his mind. It’s blurry, but that part sticks out.

“Yeah,” Dean confirms, his voice quiet. He fumbles with the coaster his beer came with, turning it around between his fingers.

There are questions on the tip of Castiel’s tongue, but he knows better than to ask them—the answers that matter are evident in Dean’s mannerisms, in the heavy silence that hangs over them.

“A lot of people kept asking me about it, after I was discharged,” Dean says, eyes fixed straight ahead with a faraway look. “There’s nothing much I could say to them,” he finishes, and he sounds almost apologetic about it. “You... you seem like you would get it.”

They both know what the ‘It’ he’s referring to is. Castiel swallows the lump growing at the back of his throat, his hands trembling as he interlaces his fingers. Part of him wants to protest the sentiment, wants to confess he’s nothing but a voyeuristic fraud Dean shouldn’t turn to for camaraderie. An even bigger, selfish part of him craves the sympathy only someone in Dean’s position can offer him, even if he’s not entitled to it.

“You must regard me with great contempt,” Castiel mutters, the words slipping past his lips without permission. They leave a pungent taste on his tongue.

Dean’s eyebrows draw together, nose scrunching up in confusion. “What?”

“I make my living pretending,” Castiel meets Dean’s eyes as he speaks, suddenly incredibly angry. He’s angry at Dean’s kindness, his lack of hostility toward Castiel; Dean is treating him to a drink when he should be punching him square in the face. “What part about that are you unable to comprehend? I _pretend_ to understand what it’s like to be stationed in Afghanistan or Iraq, to be a civilian in a war-torn country, but I get to go back! I get to go back, and I have no right to be affected by any of this, because it’s not mine! They’re not my experiences to feel anything over!”

“Whoa, okay, okay, I didn’t mean to step on any toes, alright?” Dean holds his hands up and looks around the bar. It’s only then that Castiel realizes he’s standing up and the entire patronage is staring at him, no doubt having heard him yell.

Castiel sinks back into his seat, exhausted and embarrassed. Despite himself, he can’t regret what he said, can’t deny the truth the words carry.

“You okay?” Dean asks after a moment, his expression worried, just as it had been at the bookstore. Castiel hates that is seems to be the only expression he’s capable of eliciting these days.

“I’m not like you, Dean,” he says softly, staring at the clean glasses hanging from the bar. “If it’s camaraderie you are hoping for, I’m afraid you’ll end up disappointed. There is absolutely nothing I can offer you.”

“Look,” says Dean, turning in his seat so that his body is facing Castiel. “I understand we’re not in the same exact situation, alright? But fuck, I—you’ve seen how messed up it can get, right? You don’t need to have been wearing a uniform while doing it, as far as I’m concerned.”

Castiel sighs, his anger slowly deflating . No matter how hard he pushes, Dean doesn’t seem to be willing to be pushed away. He wants to believe what Dean is saying, wants to allow himself this fellowship, even if he knows he’s not entitled to it. Dean makes him want to be selfish, and Castiel has no idea how to handle it.

“It was my father’s book,” he says after a few minutes have passed. The words are nearly inaudible, and he’s afraid Dean might have missed them until he feels his eyes on him.

“He a journalist, too?”

“He was,” Castiel confirms, staring into the bottom of his nearly-empty glass. “He’s dead, now.” There’s a short silence, and Castiel instantly regrets sharing the information, dreading the pity that’s sure to come.

“I know a thing or two about absent fathers,” Dean says instead. He claps a strong hand on Castiel’s shoulder, raising the other one to get Jo’s attention. “I think it’s time for another round.”

 

 

 

 

*

 

 

Central Park is dark and windy, coated in a layer of snow, and Castiel wonders how he’d let Dean convince him this is a good idea. It’s five AM on a Monday, and the park is closed to traffic and virtually deserted—which, Dean insisted, is precisely why it’s the perfect time for a run. Even under the veil of darkness, the scenery is stunning, and Castiel might have been more appreciative of it if it weren’t so damn early and cold. It’s not exactly often that he gets the chance to stay in bed until after the sun has risen, and it feels like a missed opportunity. He’d woken up sweaty and panicked from another nightmare earlier in the night, and the proceeding headache has him feeling disoriented.

“Come on, Cas,” Dean beckons as they reach one of the bridle paths, breaking into a steady jog. Castiel trails behind, making no real effort to keep up. When Dean notices, he jogs back to him, keeping his legs moving. “Come on, I thought you’ve done this before,” he vexes, his grin cocky. “Or are you always this slow? Maybe you have to start chasing perps to keep up with me.”

Castiel rolls his eyes at the juvenile teasing but accepts the challenge; he races past Dean, the adrenaline kicking in. That’s all it takes for his body to move on its own accord, propelling forward as fast as his legs will allow. Everything else is tuned out, the world narrowing down to the satisfying crunch of dirt and snow under his shoes, the wind grazing against his cheeks and whirling in his ears. It’s been a long time since he ran out of desire rather than necessity, with drive rather than fear pushing him forward. He barely sees the path ahead, white, green and brown swirling his vision, focusing instead on the breath leaving and entering his body, the pleasant ache in his joints. He feels weightless and unburdened as he runs, and he imagines the feeling is as close to flying as a human being can hope to experience.

The habitual smoking has taken its toll, and his endurance is not what it used to be; even so, he manages to finish the entire loop in just under five minutes. He stops to catch his breath and takes off his beanie, running a hand through his sweat-dampened hair.

“Fuck,” Dean pants when he reaches Castiel. His face his red with exertion, and he bends down with his hands on his thighs to catch his breath. “You’re fast.”

With the impromptu sprinting session out of the way, they settle into a comfortable rhythm, jogging side by side around the Jackie O Reservoir. The sun is rising by the time they’re finished, and they stop to watch as the sky is engulfed by shades of pink and orange. Castiel is mesmerized by the ripple of colour that lands on the water. He has seen some of nature’s most beautiful work, sights even more breathtaking than the one before him, but he’s never before taken the time to look.

“See,” Dean nudges him with his elbow, “Told you you’d like this.”

“Yes, Dean,” Castiel admits, transfixed and more peaceful than he’s felt in a long, long time. It’s a fleeting feeling, a surge of endorphins that is quickly dissipating, swept away with the slight breeze.

“You okay?” Dean asks, and Castiel can feel his eyes studying him. He wonders what he looks like to Dean, if he can know what Castiel is thinking with a single glance. Castiel has always been confident in his ability to mask any emotion, but Dean makes him feel transparent. He wonders if the same sort of thoughts and images plague Dean’s mind, if he can recognize the look on Castiel’s face because he’s seen it in the mirror.

“Yes,” he sighs, suddenly tired, unsure if he will be able to keep himself upright for much longer. “Just a rough night.”

“Yeah,” Dean parrots, getting that faraway look again. “I know what it’s like.”

Against his better judgment, Castiel asks the question he dreads the answer to. “Does it ever go away?”

Dean turns around, leaning his back against the reservoir’s railing. “It gets better, with time,” he says carefully, crossing his arms over his chest. “I don’t get them as often anymore, and when I do, they’re usually less vivid than they used to be.”

It’s the first time they’ve spoken about the subject in concrete terms, rather than skirting around the issue.

“My sister thinks I should speak to a professional,” Castiel says, wrapping his arms around himself. He hasn’t been able to stop thinking about Anna's concerned words since her visit two months ago, playing the conversation over and over again in his head.

“It might help,” Dean offers with a shrug.

“I sincerely doubt talking about it to a stranger can make any of this go away,” Castiel says, looking out into the reservoir.

He can feel Dean’s eyes on him as he contemplates what to say next, seeming hesitant before he speaks. “It helped me,” he finally says, eyes lowered to the ground.

Castiel’s eyes widen at the statement. It’s not the fact he sought help that is surprising—Dean is a veteran, after all—but rather that he’s willingly disclosed it to Castiel. “It did?”

Dean nods, a barely-there jut of his chin. “It took some time—it took a long-ass time, but...yeah, for the most part.”

Castiel considers this. “I can’t imagine talking about this with a stranger.” Most of the time, he can't manage talking about it at all. There’s something about Dean that makes it slightly easier, but even then...

“That’s what I thought, too,” Dean chuckles softly. “But it’s easier, somehow, y’know? I didn’t have to worry about Missouri looking at me differently, because she had no expectations from me. I didn’t have to sugarcoat anything the way I have to around other people. Heck, I think half the time she understood what I was thinking better than I did,” he says with a laugh. “It’s just... I don’t know, it felt good to let some of that shit out.”

The word _some_ strikes Castiel, and he wonders if there are things Dean hasn’t relieved himself of, secrets that are burdening him like the ones that weigh on Castiel. Still, he can’t imagine verbalizing the images that play in his mind, and he’s not certain he’s willing to try. He’s almost entirely certain he doesn’t have the right.

“I’m afraid of losing my sister,” Castiel confesses, because Anna is the real reason he’s even considering any of this. He doesn’t look at this as he speak, but somehow he’s certain he’s being heard. “I acquired a forged press pass as soon as I graduated college, packed a camera and booked a ticket to Baghdad for two months. When I returned, Anna was livid, and she demanded I find something else to do with my life. Needless to say I didn’t, and Anna refused to speak to me for two years—only reason she did was because our mother passed away.” Castiel often wonders if their contact would have been renewed otherwise. “I can tell she’s unhappy with me, and I’m afraid we will soon find ourselves in the same situation.”

“Sounds like she’s worried, more than anything,” says Dean. Castiel turns to look at him. “I mean, it’s sort of what older siblings do, you know? Looking after you is her job.”

“I’m a grown man fully capable of taking care of myself,” Castiel reasons.

Dean shakes his head, a small smile on his features. “Doesn’t matter, dude. You’ll always be her baby brother, and she’ll always feel responsible for you.”

“Is that how you think of your brother?” Castiel asks bluntly.

The response is immediate and determined. “Yeah. I mean, I practically raised the kid. He might be a grown man about to get married, but he’s still the lanky ten-year-old I protected from bullies, y’know? I’m never gonna stop looking out for him.”

 

 

 

 

*

 

 

 

Castiel has never had much of an interest in football; he doesn’t particularly understand the appeal in watching grown men tackle each other in the hopes of obtaining a ball. Somehow, though, he finds himself in Dean’s apartment, waiting for the NFL playoffs to start. Apparently, it is absolutely paramount that he participate in American culture by learning to appreciate the sport—or so Dean claims.

Dean, on the other hand, is practically buzzing with excitement; he has food and drinks set up, and he has the TV turned on even though there is half an hour until the game is scheduled to start.

A knock on the door sounds once they get settled in.

“Must be Sam and Sarah,” Dean announces, getting up to open the door. The front door is obstructed by a hallway, but Castiel gets up when he hears the unfamiliar voices.

A man and woman follow Dean back into the room. The man is incredibly tall, likely stopping at just under 6’5”, and Castiel can hardly believe this giant is the little brother Dean has been talking about. The woman beside him is a gorgeous brunette, her smile easy and outgoing.

“Castiel, this is my brother, Sam, and my soon-to-be sister-in-law, Sarah,” Dean introduces.

“Nice to meet you,” Sarah greets, shaking Castiel’s hand.

“Likewise,” he returns before turning to the younger Winchester, who is wearing a dumbfounded expression.

“Castiel Novak?” Sam inquires, and Castiel’s body goes stiff. The next words appear to be directed at Dean. “The Cas you’ve been talking about is _Castiel Novak_?” His cheeks are flushed when he turns to address Castiel, extending his hand. “Uh, i-it’s an honour, really. I-I admire your work.”

Castiel cringes at the words,wishing the ground would swallow him whole. He stares at Sam’s hand for a long time, paralyzed, and only remembers to shake it when he notices the man’s face contorting in a frown.

“I saw your interview on _Anderson Cooper 360_ a few nights ago, and I—”

“You can fangirl on your own time, Sam,” Dean interrupts with a hand on each of their shoulders. “We’ve got a game to watch.”

“The real question is, Castiel,” Sarah says with a smile, “Are you rooting for the Giants or Cowboys?”

“I’m afraid I’m not particularly invested in either,” Castiel confesses, relieved at the change of topic. “I don’t typically watch football.”

“Oh, thank God it’s not just me!” Sam exclaims. Both Dean and Sarah give him dirty looks, and he whispers conspiringly to Castiel, “They get really intense about this stupid game.”

It’s not an exaggeration, Castiel soon learns. Dean and Sarah curse at the television, and, seeing as they cheer for opposing teams, each other. Sam alternates between rolling his eyes at them and looking utterly disinterested in the proceedings, so Castiel assumes this is the normal state of affairs.

During halftime, Dean and Sarah disappear into the kitchen to restock on snacks, arguing about who’s going to make it to the next round—Castiel doesn’t know enough about football to be able to follow their conversation.

“I don’t understand what is so fascinating about watching grown men chase each other around a field to acquire a pigskin,” he confides to Sam, keeping his voice down so he won’t be heard in the next room.

Sam throws his head back and laughs, eyes crinkling. “I like you, Cas,” he says, wiping tears from his eyes. The words are surprising and unbelievably comforting; Castiel knows how much Sam means to Dean, and he’d been concerned about how they would get along. “I don’t get it either, but they seem to like it, so I put up with it.”

After that, the conversation flows easily; they discover they have much in common, discussing everything from Greek mythology to ancient history. Castiel learns that Sam is a lawyer for the Natural Resource Defense Council, and they’re talking about fracking when Dean interupts.

“Keep the nerd talk for after the game,” he chastises, but his eyes are fond and amused. “Halftime’s over.”

 

 

 

 

*

 

 

Doctor Pamela Barnes is not what Castiel expected. She’s young, cordial and gives off a distinctly grungy vibe with her _Ramones_ t-shirt and leather jacket. Granted, he’s not really certain _what_ he expected, never having been to therapy before, but it wasn’t this. She’d asked basic questions about his life—his occupation and his family, significant relationships and events. Castiel answered all of them efficiently and honestly, and the conversation has since lapsed. They’ve been sitting in silence for precisely seven minutes, and she seems perfectly comfortable letting it stretch, yellow legal pad resting in her lap. Castiel wonders if it’s a test, if he’s failing before their session has even officially begun. He can’t bear the silence, and he struggles to find something to say.

“My sister is excessively concerned about my mental health,” Castiel finally volunteers. It seems like a relevant, safe tidbit of information to offer; he’s here at his sister’s urging, and he needs Dr. Barnes to help him alleviate her concerns. “She thinks I’m depressed.”

“Are you?”

Castiel blinks in surprise. “I thought you were going to be the judge of that.”

Dr. Barnes smiles kindly. “I’m interested in what you think.”

Castiel shrugs. “I get out of bed. I’m able to attend to my responsibilities. I function. That seems to contradict the hallmarks of depression.”

“And what do you think the hallmarks of depression are?”

“That’s a rather concerning question for a therapist to be asking, don’t you think?” he bites. Dr. Barnes expression remains patient, making it perfectly clear she will not engage his childishness. “Impaired functioning in important life areas.”

“Wouldn’t you say your relationship with your sister has been affected by this concern?” There is more truth to that statement than Castiel is willing to acknowledge, so he doesn’t respond. “You seem to have a pretty particular picture of what you think depression looks like, but it’s not as clear cut as you make it out to be. It can manifest itself differently for different people.”

“There are people who are worse off than I am.”

“There are always people who are worse off. It doesn’t make how you feel any less valid or real.” The protest is ready on Castiel’s tongue, but he doesn’t voice it. An argument is nothing but a waste of precious time he’s not entitled to. “You haven’t actually answered the question,” she points out. “Do you feel depressed?”

“I don’t feel much of anything,” he confesses, cringing when he hears her pen scratching against the paper. Clearly, it was the wrong thing to say.

“So you’re saying you feel numb?”

Castiel sighs and rubs his temples. “Look, I’m sure you’re a fine therapist, doctor Barnes,” he starts. “But I’m not here to... I’m not here for that. I merely need you to tell me I’m not depressed so I can reassure my sister with a professional opinion. I don’t want her to worry about me.”

“I’m afraid I can’t make that assessment in half an hour, Castiel,” she says, folding her hands in her lap.

“This is ridiculous,” he exclaims, louder than he intended. “You could be helping someone who needs it! Instead, you’re wasting your time on me.”

“It’s for me to decide what the best use of my time is,” she says. It’s a perfectly legitimate rebuttal, but Castiel finds himself growing angry, desperate for her to hear what he is saying. Why can’t she just make a fucking assessment so he can be on his way? Every minute he spends here is an unlawful one, stealing resources from those who need them the most.

“I suppose it’s all the same to you—as long as you’re paid, what difference does it make, right?” it’s bitter and hostile to his own ears, but the open expression on the therapist’s face doesn’t change.

“Is that how you interpret it? If you get paid, you must have no genuine desire to help and none of it has any meaning?” It’s a twist he wasn’t expecting, but a reproach he certainly deserved. Experience has taught him it’s far from the truth, and it stands to reason it’s the same in Dr. Barnes’ case. “Why are you here, Castiel?”

“I told you—”

“Yes, you want a professional opinion for the sake of your sister—who, as you’ve mentioned, _is_ a mental health professional. It also seems you’ve spent some time researching depression. Am I wrong in assuming part of you might agree with her assessment?”

Castiel drops his gaze, staring at the shaking hands in his lap. It suddenly feels like the wind has been knocked out of him, and he’s tired and worn-down. “I don’t know,” he says honestly, tasting bile on his tongue.

“Then how do you feel about coming back and figuring it out?” she asks. “Does same time next week work for you?”

After a moment of consideration, he nods. A voice in his head screams that it’s a selfish indulgence he doesn’t deserve, but he does his best to ignore it, if only for the time being.

“Oh, and Castiel?” she says as he’s putting his coat on. “I’m happy to talk with you as long as you’re willing, but don’t make a habit of taking your anger out on me. I won’t allow it.”

Nodding, Castiel gets up to leave, and she walks him to the door. “See you next Monday, Doctor Barnes.”

The smile he gets is welcoming and puts him at ease. “You can call me Pam.”

 

 

 

 

*

 

 

The week passes by in a blur, and Castiel finds himself back in Pamela’s office before he knows it. This time, he revels in the silence they open the session with, taking the opportunity to tune out the static in his head. In their previous meeting, he had not taken the time to explore the small room, so he studies the paintings on the walls, fixating on Dali’s _The Persistence of Memory_. Both theme and artist are fitting, and Castiel scoffs—of course a therapist would pick an artist as equally obsessed with the subconscious. The melting clocks the painting depicts have always bothered him—why is it that each one is showing a different time?

“How was your week, Castiel?” Pamela asks, and Castiel tears his eyes away from the painting.

“Fine,” he responds, clenching and unclenching his fists, enjoying the cracking sound his knuckles make.

“You seem fidgety today,” she observes, looking down at his legs. He didn't realize he’s been tapping his foot, and he forcefully grabs his thigh to stop himself. “Did something happen?”

“No,” he responds immediately. “I just didn’t get much sleep last night.”

“Do you often have difficulty sleeping?”

Castiel looks up from his hands, deliberating how much he should disclose. “More often than not,” he says. “I have insomnia.”

“Have you seen a doctor about it?”

Castiel snorts. “So they can prescribe sleeping pills? They don’t work.” They _did_ help the few times he’s tried them, but the last thing he needs is to develop a dependence.

“How long have you had insomnia for?”

“I don’t know,” he shrugs. It’s been long enough that he can’t remember. “A few years, maybe?”

“That’s a long time,” Pam says, leaning forward in her seat. “How do you cope with the lack of sleep?”

“I’m used to it,” he says simply, rubbing his temples. The headache he’s been battling since morning has amplified, and the ringing in his ears won’t stop. Images from his nightmare flood his sight, sharp and nearly blinding. He bends over to rest his head between his knees, focusing on the beige carpet beneath his feet.

“Castiel? Are you alright?” Pam’s voice is worried. It reminds him of Anna: the gentle patience and concern that’s now present in her tone whenever she talks to him, like she’s afraid of setting him off. He hates it.

“I’m fine,” he hurries to say, still unable to sit up straight. “It’s just a headache. They happen sometimes after a nightmare.”

“You have nightmares?” she asks, and Castiel realizes what he just let slip. “Is that why you can’t sleep? What are they about, your nightmares?”

“No no no no,” Castiel murmurs frantically to the carpet, desperate to take the confession back. He’s revealed too much, and Pamela is sure to connect the scattered dots, now, amalgamating the symptoms into a diagnosis; he can practically hear the verdict on the tip of her tongue. “It’s not what you think, all right? It’s nothing of import.”

“Castiel, you’re telling me it’s been years since you’ve slept through the night, and your nightmares are so vivid you can barely function the next day. It sounds to me like they have a profound impact on your life, so it must be pretty important. Can you tell me what they’re about?”

Her words echo in the room, and it’s suddenly hard to breathe, Castiel’s vision spotty and his chest tight, the sound of his racing heart loud in his ears. The information he let slip was never meant to be shared, and he can’t have the therapist label him with a diagnosis he has no right to. The memories that plague him are not his, and he has no claim to the emotions they evoke. He doesn’t belong here—not in this office, not in New York. Millions of people are living under threat: civilians and refugees displaced from their homes, living in poverty and war; soldiers separated from their loved ones, dragging the hefty weight of death along with their guns. Castiel may have observed these realities for months at a time for the majority of the decade, but he has not lived them; how, then, can he afford to sit in this office and talk about the trauma _he’s_ sustained from these events? What kind of person does that make him?

His throat constricts, his breaths short and rushed, lungs burning. It feels like he’s about to pass out. There’s shuffling in the room, and then Pamela is sitting next to him, a gentle hand placed between his shoulderblades.

“Relax your jaw,” she instructs. “Keep your shoulders down. I’m going to count out loud, and I want you to inhale to the count of two, and exhale to the count of four, okay? Can you do that?” he nods, letting Pamela’s voice guide him as she starts counting. After a few repetitions they work up to a count of four and six, and he focuses on feeling his chest rise and fall as he breathes. “Good. You’re doing great.”

They repeat the exercise for a few minutes, and Castiel’s breath slowly returns to normal, his racing heart settling down to an even pace.

“Feeling better?” Pamela asks, handing him a tissue to wipe the sweat that has gathered on his brow. Castiel nods, and she gets up, moving to her usual seat across from him. “Has this happened to you before?”

Feeling exhausted, Castiel merely nods, folding his hands across his chest to stop them from shaking.

“When was the last time you had a panic attack?”

He cringes at the name she ascribes to the episode, but doesn’t argue. “Last week.”

“And what happened just now? Where did your mind go?”

He’s too tired to cover up the truth—she’s already witnessed what he’s tried his hardest to hide, in any case. “I was seeing things,” he says, leaning back against the couch as she waits for him to continue. “Not... imaginary things,” he amends, realizing how it must sound. Pamela doesn’t rush him, seeming to sense his need to collect his thoughts. “Things that have happened. Things I’ve witnessed.”

“What kind of things?”

Castiel closes his eyes. “Things I’d rather never think of again.”

 

 

After the session is over, Castiel runs. He runs until his legs are no longer able to support the weight of his exhausted body, until his old pair of New Balance is falling apart at the soles. When he gets home, he boots up his laptop and opts to work on his article, though the due date is a week away.

It’s close to three AM by the time he’s done, but he feels wide awake and restless. Google seems to mock him with its bright letters, the blinking cursor in the search bar daring him to type. _Post-traumatic stress disorder_. It’s not the first time he’s researched it, but the words sounded so definitive coming out of Pamela’s mouth, and he can’t get it out of his head. It can’t be true; despite her experience and expertise, Pamela is likely wrong—she has to be. If he just looks hard enough, Castiel is certain he can find the evidence to refute her diagnosis. Clicking on the WebMD link, he makes it through half of the first paragraph before exiting the browser and slamming his laptop shut.

 

 

 

 

*

 

 

 

Dean was supposed to be home over three hours ago. Castiel looks over at Sam, pacing around the living-room, phone glued to his ear as he leaves yet another message for his brother.

“Fuck,” he murmurs as he hangs up, running his hand through his hair. “Where the hell is he?”

“I’m sure everything’s fine, Sam,” Sarah says, putting a comforting hand on his back. “Maybe he went out with someone from work?”

Sam shakes his head. “He _hates_ his birthday. He specifically told me he’d be coming home right after his shift was over.”

“Only Dean would insist on spending his birthday working,” Jo says hotly, taking a swig from her beer bottle, but Castiel can recognize the concern behind her words. “I swear, if he’s out getting laid right now, I’m going to cut off his balls myself.”

At eleven, Sam sends everyone home, promising to call as soon as he gets in touch with Dean.

Castiel is immobile on Dean’s couch, staring at the “Happy Birthday” banner hung on the wall. He’s never been particularly fond of surprise parties, but this one is quickly turning out to be a disaster.

“You can go, too, Cas,” Sam says as he all but collapses next to him, voice tired. He’s been planning this for months, and Castiel can imagine this is not how he’d anticipated the night to unfold. “I can let you know when he turns up.”

“I’m staying,” Castiel insists. He’s tried to remain calm and reasonable for the sake of the others, but the anxiety is quickly unfurling in his stomach. He has to make sure Dean is alright, has to to confirm it for himself.

“I’m going to make us all some tea,” says Sarah, and Castiel is thankful at least one of them is able to keep it together.

They’ve been trying to call Dean for hours—the first few tries went unanswered; after that, all calls were immediately redirected to voicemail. Even so, Castiel tries it again, sighing when Dean’s voice asks him to leave a message.

“Maybe his phone is out of battery,” he mutters, more to himself than anyone else.

They sit in silence after that, Sam’s anxiety radiating off his body in waves. The tea Sarah made sits untouched on the coffee table.

It’s another twenty minutes before the jingle of keys sounds in the door, and they all practically jump to their feet.

“Dean?” Sam asks as soon as the door is pushed open, making it across the hallway in three short strides. Castiel follows behind him, stopping in his tracks when he says the state Dean’s in.

“Sam?” Dean looks up from fumbling with the door, eyes widening when he sees his brother. “What are you doing here?” he looks around the apartment, taking in the huge banner and miscellaneous party decorations. “Shit.”

“Where the hell have you been?” Sam inquires, clearly too overcome with relief to note the state his brother’s in. “Your were supposed to come home over three and a half hours ago. We’ve been worried sick!”

“Um,” Dean says, squinting against the bright lights in the apartment. “Out?” he offers. He trips as he enters the apartment, barely managing to close the door behind him.

Sam narrows his eyes, inspecting. “Are you drunk?”

Dean drops his keys on the floor, scrambling to bend down and retrieve them. It takes a few tries, but he manages to pick them up.

Castiel and Sarah exchange a look.

“Uh. No?” Dean tries, and Sam’s expression turns livid.

“I can’t believe this!” He shouts, his tone affronted. “Did you drive here?”

“No, no!” Dean assures, and Castiel lets out a sigh of relief at the words. “Jesus. I took a cab, a’right?”

Sam exhales slowly, visibly trying to calm himself. “I thought you were done pulling these kinds of stunts.”

Castiel shifts uncomfortably, looking over at Sarah for clues; she merely shrugs in response, just as unequipped for the scene in front of them as he is. It feels intrusive to witness this moment between the brothers, and he tries to make himself invisible.

“So I had a few drinks,” Dean slurs, wobbling into the living-room. “What’s the big deal?”

“The _big deal_ ,” Sam repeats slowly, “Is that your family was waiting for you, but you choose to get drunk all by yourself in some seedy bar! You’re shit-faced!”

“How the hell was I supposed to know you were waiting for me?”

“Maybe, Dean, you could suspend disbelief for _one moment_ , and consider that your family would want to spend your birthday with you! Did that ever occur to you?”

Dean lets out a weary sigh, leaning his shoulder against the wall to support his weight. “What do you want from me, Sammy?”

Sam’s face falls at that, the lines on his skin deepening in a frown. “Nothing. I don’t want anything,” he says quietly. Castiel preferred the yelling, and Dean’s wince makes it clear he feels the same way. Sam picks up a wrapped gift from the pile lying in the corner, thrusting it at Dean’s chest. “Happy birthday,” he says bitterly, grabbing his coat before leaving the apartment. The door clicks softly shut behind him.

“I’ll go talk to him,” announces Sarah. She catches Castiel’s eye and gives him a meaningful look, as if saying, _Stay with him_. Castiel simply nods in response; leaving hadn’t even occurred to him.

She grabs her own coat from the couch and walks up to Dean, standing on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek. “He’ll cool off,” she promises. “Just take care of yourself, alright?”

The apartment is suddenly quiet, laden with residual tension, a stain that can’t be scrubbed off the walls. Dean plops down heavily on the couch, holding his head in his hands.

“Fuck,” he mutters, a fitting and succinct summary of the evening. “I really fucked up, didn’t I?”

It’s not really a question, but Castiel feels obligated to answer nonetheless. “Sam will forgive you,” he says confidently. If there’s anything he’s learned from spending so much time with the younger Winchester, it’s that he loves his brother and looks up to him. “You should get some rest.”

Dean looks up from his hands, staring at Castiel like he’s just noticed his presence. When he makes no move to get up, Castiel goes to fetch him a glass of water, rummaging through the kitchen until he finds a bottle of ibuprofen. He hands them to Dean before joining him on the couch.

“He hates me,” Dean exclaims after downing two pills, staring into the empty glass.

“Sam could never hate you, Dean,” Castiel says. The mere idea is preposterous. “He wouldn’t be this angry if he hated you.”

Dean doesn’t say anything to that, clutching the glass in his hand hard enough to break. Castiel gently pries it from his fingers and puts it down on the coffee table. This close to him, Castiel can see Dean’s eyes are glassy, his skin flushed and clammy.

Dean wets his lips, opening and closing his mouth a few times. “Dad was a drunk,” he says on the fifth try, voice scratchy. “Would disappear for days and we wouldn’t hear from him. Guess Sam’s afraid ‘m gonna follow in his footsteps.”

The admission is not terribly surprising; Castiel knows Dean’s father wasn’t around much when they were growing up, that Dean had to care for Sam like a parent would. Still, it’s the first time Dean has voiced that particular fact, and Castiel understands how significant it is that he’s been trusted with the information.

“I used to do this a lot after my discharge,” Dean continues, holding his head between his hands. “Freaked Sammy out. But t’was the only thing that helped with the nightmares, y’know?”

“Yes, I do,” Castiel confesses, looking down at his hands. There have been nights he’d drank himself to sleep, a bottle of Jack Daniels chasing away images nothing else could get rid of. It was the only way to find reprieve, to get a few hours of peace, even if temporarily. Anna hadn’t been around to witness it, thankfully, but he lost count of the number of arguments it had caused with Balthazar.

Dean’s dejection is easy to spot in the lines on his face, hopelessness evident in the swelling under his eyes. “What happened today, Dean?” Castiel finds the courage to ask.

  
Dean is silent for a long moment, choosing to speak just when Castiel thinks he’s not going to answer. “Triple homicide,” he says, rubbing a hand over his haggard face. “You’ll read about it in the paper tomorrow,” he dismisses, and Castiel lets it go. There is no use in rehashing the details; Castiel can extrapolate that it had an impact on Dean, and that’s all he needs to know. “They were all kids, Cas,” he adds after a while, bending his neck to a painful-looking angle and clutching his short hair. “They were all just kids.”

He’s talking about more than what he’d witnessed tonight, Castiel understands, and he reaches out to place a trembling hand against Dean’s shoulder, giving it a light squeeze. Many of the bodies in any given war belong to children, and the images of lost innocence are ones that linger presistently. Dean himself, and certainly many of the soldiers that chose to serve with him, had been nothing but kids when they enlisted. There were always so many kids caught in the crossfire; innocents were always the first to fall casualty to the war.

There’s nothing to say to any of this, and the only comfort Castiel can offer is sympathy for what Dean is going through and his presence. He wishes desperately there was something more he could give.

 

 

 

 

*

 

 

 

_Castiel leaned his crutches against the wall and adjusted the backpack slung across his shoulder before fitting the key in the door and pushing it open. It was Friday night, and he hoped Balthazar would be out at some posh new club, flirting with the bartender and dancing to his heart’s content. They were bound to fight upon Castiel’s return, and while it couldn’t be avoided, he could very well do with postponing it._

_He limped past the entrance to the apartment, still unused to the crutches restricting his movements. He turned on the light in the living-room, squinting against the bright fluorescent, and noisily dropped his keys on the table._

_“Cas? Is that you?” Balthazar’s voice carried from their bedroom, footsteps sounding down the hall. Castiel stiffened, trying to prepare himself for the imminent argument. “I wasn’t expecting you for another mon—”_

_He froze as soon as he reached the living-room and took in Castiel’s appearance, eyes landing on the crutches and the cast extending to just under his right knee. “What the hell happened?” he questioned as he hurried to Castiel’s side, helping him to the couch. Once seated, Castiel leaned the crutches against its arm, sinking back into the soft cushions. Balthazar rearranged the papers scattered across the coffee table, making room for Castiel to prop his leg up._

Nothing _, Castiel wanted to snap, irrationally irked by the gesture, and just barely managed to stop himself in time. “IED,” he said instead, levelled and succinct._

_“Jesus fuck, Cas!” Balthazar exclaimed, and Castiel noticed his skin turned pale, his expression troubled. Silence enveloped the room, and Castiel realized Balthazar was waiting for him to elaborate—an expectation he had no intention of fulfilling. “Are you... are you all right? What happened?”_

_“I’m fine,” Castiel stated, hoping the dismissive words could end the conversation. His leg was throbbing and heavy, the muscles exerted from the long journey home. The injuries he’d sustained made breathing painful and he winced, hoping the motion went undetected. He was lucky to have escaped with nothing but a fractured fibula and a couple of cracked ribs, he reminded himself. Reaching inside his jeans pocket, he could sense Balthazar eyeing him warily as he dry-swallowed two Vicodin._

_“Yeah, I can see you’re fucking dandy,” Balthazar remarked sarcastically. “_ Tell me what happened, _” he demanded gravely, making it clear he wasn’t going to let up._

_“A bomb went off and I was flung against a fucking building, all right?” Castiel retaliated, tone acrimonious as he begrudgingly surrendered the information. “Is that sufficient information, or do you need a fucking doctor’s note, too?”_

_Balthazar’s face blanched, mouth agape. His eyes darted from Castiel’s face to his leg and back up again. He folded his arms across his chest, hunching his shoulders. “Why didn’t you call?” The words didn’t sound like they belonged to him, soft and broken._

_“What for?” Castiel dismissed, knowing full well how snide the remark sounded. It’s not like Balthazar could have hopped on a plane and come visit him in the hospital, after all._

_“What_ for _?!” Balthazar repeated, his tone incredulous. “A_ bomb _went off on you, Cas—that’s what for!”_

_“It’s just a broken leg, Balthazar,” Castiel countered. “It’s not like it blew off my fucking head.” Unlike Samandriel, whose neck had been broken upon impact. Castiel could still remember seeing his body not two feet away from him before blacking out from the pain._

_“It bloody well could have!” Balthazar shouted, sounding livid, and Castiel just closed his eyes. After a few tense moments, he heard Balthazar moving around, opening his eyes to discover his partner kneeling in front of him, settling between his legs. His hands on Castiel’s thighs were warm, burning right through the dirty denim. Balthazar leaned in and placed a chaste kiss on the corner of his mouth. It jarred Castiel, suspending his breath as he tried to anticipate what was to come. “Cassie,” Balthazar said softly, brushing his thumb against Castiel’s cheek, skin chafing against the thick beard covering his face. “Please, please—just talk to me. Don’t shut me out.”_

_Their eyes met, and Castiel couldn’t stand the suppliant expression on Balthazar’s face. He much preferred the anger he’d initially been shown—he could handle that, could handle fire. What he couldn’t handle was this—this normally boisterous and brazen man on his knees in front of him, looking small and desperate, begging for something Castiel could not give._

_Castiel leaned back, out of reach, forcing Balthazar’s hand to drop from his face, hanging in mid-air. Balthazar’s face crumpled, and Castiel lowered his eyes, fixating instead on the plaster encasing his leg._

_“Could we not do this right now?” he pleaded, rubbing his palm against the hair covering his cheek, the same spot Balthazar’s hand had touched. He felt weak and queasy; the conversation had depleted whatever little energy he had left, and all he wanted was to be left alone._

I’m so tired, _he wanted to say,_ please just sit with me quietly. _The words never came, trapped in his throat, morsels of thought left for him to choke on._

_“Un-fucking-believable,” Balthazar muttered, shaking his head in defeat. He got up, retreating down the hall, presumably to the bedroom. He slammed the door loudly behind him, the sound ricocheting off the walls and echoing in the apartment. It sounded like an explosion._

_Castiel sat still, trying to ignore the buzzing in his ears._

 

 

 

 

*

 

 

 

A call comes in as soon as Castiel logs in to Skype.

“Hey, little bro,” says Anna. Castiel rolls his eyes in response; she knows how much he dislikes it when she calls him that. In fact, he’s certain it’s the reason she insists on it.

“Hello, Anna,” he responds, noting she’s still wearing her scrubs. “How was work? I’m assuming you just got in.”

She gives a tired smile. “Exhausting. We were short-staffed, which of course meant the ER was _packed_ with psychiatric patients. We were stretched pretty thin trying to get to everyone as quickly as possible.”

“You best rest, then,” Castiel reasons. There are slight bags under her eyes, and she’s clearly in need of sleep. “We can arrange another time to speak.”

“Don’t pull that act on me, I’m the big sister, here,” Anna says with an affectionate smile. “Besides, I have the day off tomorrow, and I’m planning on sleeping most of it away, so don’t worry. I can put if off for another hour.”

“If you’re certain,” he says. Castiel may be stubborn, but he is no match for Anna.

“So, tell me. How’s therapy going?”

Castiel fidgets in his seat. Of course that’s the first thing she’d ask; it seems all they ever talk about anymore is Castiel’s mental state. “Can we talk about something else?”

“Sure, once we cover this topic,” insists Anna.

“It’s fine,” he responds automatically. Anna doesn’t say anything, but the look she gives him makes it clear it’s not an answer she will accept. “It’s… challenging,” he amends. “I was referred to a psychiatrist as part of my treatment, and he thinks I stand to benefit from medication.”

“What did he prescribe?” asks Anna, leaning closer to her computer screen.

“Luvox,” he responds. “Supposedly it’s a common choice for… my condition.” They’d briefly discussed adding an anxiolytic, but Castiel adamantly refused after learning about the risk of dependence. The antidepressant has an anxiolytic effect, so they settled on trying it by itself first, and reevaluate as necessary.

“Good. Have you been taking it?”

“I only picked it up yesterday.” He neglects to mention it had been prescribed to him over a week ago; he spent that time staring at the nearly-illegible scrawl on the slip of paper, trying to decide if he’d go through with the entire thing. After all, it’d taken him over two months to agree to seeing a psychiatrist in the first place.

“You’ll let me know how it goes, then, yeah?”

“Yes,” he promises.

Anna, to her credit, stays true to her word, and they move on to discuss other topics. She’s complaining about the annoying co-worker who keeps trying to set her up when the doorbell rings. It takes Castiel a moment to realize it’s coming from his front door and not Anna’s.

“Expecting someone?” She asks with an arched eyebrow.

Castiel shakes his head. “Not that I’m aware of. Give me a moment.”

Dean is on the other side of the door, dressed to the nines in a formal, well-fitted suit with a skinny black tie. He looks handsome and completely overdressed for a casual visit. “Hey, Cas. I know it’s a bit early, but I figured I’d give you a ride to the gallery.”

Castiel stares at his friend. “What?” He asks dumbly.

Dean’s expression is amused more than anything. “You forgot, didn’t you? The exhibit Sarah’s been working on? It’s today.”

Of course. Sarah has been raving about it for months, full of nervous energy and excitement. As the new curator, it’s the first time she’s put an exhibition together, and Castiel knows it means a great deal to her. He had every intention of attending her big night—he just didn’t realize it would come around so quickly.

Dean must notice the panicked expression on Castiel’s face, because he puts a hand on his shoulder and says, “Hey, it’s cool, we still got time to make it. Go get ready and make it quick.”

“Cas?” Anna’s voice calls just as Dean enters the apartment and closes the door behind him.

“It’s my sister,” Castiel explains to Dean as they walk to the kitchen, where his laptop is sitting on the dining table. “Anna, I’m afraid I have to leave. Dean informed me of a prior commitment I’d forgotten about—”

“Ah, so you’re Dean,” Anna says with a bright smile, examining his friend.

“Sure am,” Dean salutes the camera, charming grin in place.

“So where are you two headed?” She asks.

Before Castiel can respond, Dean gently pushes Castiel in the direction of his bedroom. “I’ll fill your sister in, just go get ready.” He doesn’t wait for a response as he settles into the chair in front of the computer.

“Don’t worry, baby brother, I won’t share _too_ many embarrassing stories,” says Anna in return.

Though he’s somewhat hesitant, Castiel continues to the bathroom, leaving Dean and Anna to their own devices. After all, Castiel has met most of Dean’s family, so it only seems fair. In the months since they met, Dean has become an important presence in Castiel’s life, and it feels right that he share that with Anna.

 

Fifteen minutes later, Castiel has showered, shaved, and donned his most expensive suit. He stops in the hallway when he catches the tail-end of Dean and Anna’s conversation.

“Dean… look out for my brother, okay?”

“I’ll do what I can,” says Dean, tone soft. He turns around and notices Castiel, smiling as he looks him up and down. “You clean up nice, Cas.”

“Thank you, Dean,” he says as he enters the kitchen.

Once they say their goodbyes to Anna, Dean and Castiel rush out the door.

“Your sister seems pretty cool,” Dean says when they’re in the elevator. They certainly seem to have gotten along, and Castiel is glad for it.

“Anna is a remarkable woman,” he responds with a swell of pride.

 

 

 

 

*

 

 

 

“I’d like for us to meet twice a week,” Pamela informs at the start of their session. Castiel had barely taken off his coat, ears and nose still red from the February cold. “There is much for you to gain from traditional talk therapy, but there’s something else I’d like to try.”

“What’s that?” asks Castiel, pulling at the collar of his shirt.

“Exposure therapy,” she responds, and Castiel’s blood runs cold. What little he knows about the treatment comes from the Intro Psych course he took in his freshman year; it hardly seemed appealing then, and even less so now. “Do you know anything about it?”

“A bit,” he confesses, shifting in his seat. He doesn’t recall the couch being quite this uncomfortable before.

“Well, why don’t we go through what it may entail, and then you can decide if it’s something you’re willing to try,” Pamela suggests. Castiel nods. “The first thing we will do is learn coping techniques, including relaxation and imagery exercises. Once you’re comfortable with those, we’ll start the exposure. Essentially, you will relive the trauma you’ve experienced in your imagination. You will describe your experiences to me, in detail, focusing on your emotions and using the present tense. We’ll work gradually, starting with less upsetting stressors and moving up to the most severe trauma, allthewhile utilizing the learned coping strategies. There will also be homework assignments requiring you to do so at home, too.”

The thought of having to go through with what Pamela is suggesting is terrifying. More than that, Castiel doesn’t think he could make it through the treatment even if he wanted to. Where would he even begin? So much has accumulated in his head over the past decade—some events are clearer than others, the memory of them more lucid and defined, but they’re all important; it would feel negligent and disrespectful to pick and choose, to place them on a hierarchy based on Castiel’s error-prone memory and faulty perception.

“It will be quite intensive,” continues Pamela. “And, to be honest, it can get quite overwhelming. Panic attacks are not an uncommon initial reaction. The idea is to confront the trauma in a controlled setting and using the learned coping techniques.”

“I don't…” Castiel starts, closing his eyes so he won’t have to confront the imploring expression on Pamela’s face. “I don’t think I can do that.”

“All right,” says Pamela, and it’s somewhat of a surprise to Castiel. “Why don’t you think about it, at least? We can talk about it some more when you feel ready.

 

 

 

 

*

 

 

_Dear Mister Novak,_

_It is a privilege for me to be able to advise you that the University of Georgia has designated you as a recipient of a Personal Peabody Award for your outstanding contribution to journalism._

_The George Foster Peabody Award recognizes distinguished and meritorious public service by radio and television stations, networks, producing organizations and individuals. Reflecting excellence in quality rather than popularity or commercial success, the Peabody is the industry’s most competitive honor, with an average of about 25-35 winners chosen annually from more than 1,000 entries._

_The Peabody Awards will be formally presented at a luncheon in New York City, held on_ —

 

 

Castiel stops reading, staring in disbelief at the piece of paper in his hands. The words on the page blur together, turning into miniscule black spots that can’t be deciphered. Automatically, his fingers close into a ball, crumpling the paper and dropping it on the floor.

They’re giving him a Peabody. It is preposterous and unseemly; Castiel has done absolutely nothing to merit any accolades, and certainly not one this prestigious. Bile rises in his throat, his stomach knotted, and Castiel rushes to the bathroom. It’s only dry heaving, but Castiel stays next to the toilet until the spasms leave his body.

When the doorbell sounds, Castiel wills his shaking knees to cooperate, forcing himself up.

“Hey,” Dean says from the other side of the door. He’s wearing sneakers and track pants, and it occurs to Castiel they're supposed to go for a run. “You ready to go?”

Castiel lets Dean inside the apartment. “Yes,” he says, deciding the distraction will do him some good. “I’ll just be a minute,” he adds, heading to the bedroom to change into his running gear.

He reenters the living-room to find Dean has picked up the crumpled letter from the floor, a surprised expression on his face.

“Holy shit, dude,” he says when their eyes meet, waving the paper around for emphasis. “Why was this tossed on the floor?”

“It’s just a stupid award,” Castiel replies, grabbing the paper out of Dean’s hands.

“A stupid award?” Dean repeats, incredulous. “You’re getting a fucking Peabody, man. Even I know that’s a big deal.”

“You know nothing,” Castiel snaps. “You have no business sorting through my personal belongings.”

“Whoa, cool it, man,” Dean holds his hands up. “I was gonna throw it in the trash, just wanted to make sure it wasn’t important.”

“It isn’t,” Castiel insists, tearing the paper into four neat pieces and scrunching it with his hand. Dean follows him, the floorboard creaking under his feet.

“Dude, did you write down the information?” Dean inquires, eyebrows raised. “It said something about a ceremony—”

“I’m not going to the fucking ceremony!” Castiel bellows. He can feel the blood rushing to the surface of his skin, his heartbeat pounding in his ears.

Dean doesn’t budge. It seems to be a common theme of their relationship: the more Castiel pushes, the harder Dean pushes back, unfazed. “Why the hell not?”

“Because I don’t deserve this ridiculous award!”

“What are you talking about? You work harder than anyone I know.”

The idea is so ludicrous that Castiel can’t help but laugh, the sound of it hysterical and bitter. “It doesn’t mean anything,” he manages to say, collapsing on the couch. It’s square and entirely uncomfortable. He buries his face in his hands, the heels of his palms pressing against his eyes. “None of it means anything.”

“The award?” Dean asks, and Castiel hears the confusion in his voice.

“My work, Dean,” he says, tone resigned. “I used to think it does—that I could change things and what I do could matter—but it doesn’t make any difference. Wars are still happening, people are still dying, and they want to give me a fucking _award_? For outstanding contributions to journalism?” The idea makes him snort, hysteria bubbling up in his chest. “Tell me what the fuck I’ve accomplished, Dean, because it all feels so goddamn repetitive. It means shit all.”

Castiel wanted to become a journalist because he believed the work would leave a mark on the world. He believed in the value of telling people’s stories, in providing a platform to those who are ignored and discarded. He went to warzones because he believed if he shed light on atrocities the public wasn’t aware of, it would force politicians and lawmakers to stop ignoring them. Journalism, in Castiel’s eyes, was a way to help people, and he could see himself doing nothing else.

Over the years, it’s become increasingly more difficult to believe that. Nothing ever changed. Castiel sold his stories to news stations, published articles and photographs in reputable newspapers and magazines, putting it out there for thousands to see and read. Despite of it, people only paid attention for so long, and it was only a matter of time until the cycle started all over again, until he found himself in the next human-made catastrophe, or one he’d already covered and only exacerbated.

His body feels heavy, and he suddenly misses the comfort of his warm bed. He wants desperately to escape, to make all of this go away, but he knows he can’t—not without the help of heavy liquor or the bottle of Ambien still stashed away somewhere in his nightstand.

The couch dips with the weight of an added body, and Castiel startles; he’d forgotten Dean was even here. “Cas,” is all that Dean says, quiet and tentative. It’s all he has to say, somehow, the single word carrying so much meaning, and Castiel is grateful that Dean doesn’t instigate physical contact.

They sit in silence, interrupted only by the New York traffic sounding from the open window in the kitchen. Castiel draws his legs up to his chest and wraps his arms around them, resting his chin on his knees.

“When I was in Afghanistan a couple of years ago, I was working closely with another reporter,” he finds himself saying, the words spilling out of his mouth without permission. He hasn’t breathed a word of this to anyone else, choosing instead to keep it safely confined in his head, and he has no idea what possesses him to speak them, now, why he’s being so reckless. “His name was Samandriel Ginsberg. Twenty-three years old, fresh out of college. It was his first assignment. I—I was somewhat of a mentor to him, I suppose. There was an explosion, and—” Castiel swallows thickly, closing his eyes. “Samandriel died. All I left with were some lacerations on my face, a broken leg and a couple of fractured ribs. It was his first assignment—I’ve been doing this for nearly a decade. He died, and I lived.”

It makes no sense that after a decade of travelling to warzone after warzone, Castiel keeps emerging largely unscathed, no matter how long he is gone for or how quickly he returns, no matter how dangerous the situation he gets himself into. How is it possible for the luck of people like Samandriel to run out so quickly, when Castiel’s keeps stretching, following him around like a dark cloud?

“He was not even two feet away from me when he died,” Castiel says, the words creeping up his throat like heavy, acrid smoke. “The blast from the explosion flung us against a building. It all happened so fast; one moment we were taking pictures of children playing on the streets, the next there’s a loud noise and a blinding pain in my leg and sides. There was a short moment where I was lucid enough to see Samandriel next to me, his head twisted into an impossible angle. I thought to myself, ‘He can’t be dead,’ and then I blacked out.”

It wasn’t nearly the most gruesome thing he’s seen in his long career, not by a long shot, but it’s the one that plays in his mind most often. There are many things he’d learned about Samandriel in the short two months they spent together, many things he remembers about the young man: his idealistic approach to journalism, unwavering even in the face of the harsh reality of war; the wife and baby waiting for him back home, whose picture he’d admire every day without fail; the moment he decided to become a journalist, flipping through TV channels as a young teenager and landing on one of Castiel’s reports on the news. There are even more things Castiel never got to learn about him, and never will.

He’s accomplished nothing. All Castiel’s managed to do in his long career is lure in others with his naive idealism. Samandriel is merely one casualty he knows of. How many others who have watched his report and read his articles decided to pursue the same dangerous path, risking their lives for the sake of the profession? Castiel has been touted as the poster boy for integral, objective journalism, and awards like the one he’d been given only served to accentuate the illusion of glamour; they failed to mention the distinctly _unglamorous_ parts of the job: the mental and physical scarring, the despondence, the loss of functionality and complete loss of identity.

Castiel hands are shaking as he opens the rumpled pieces of paper in his hand, smoothing them out, fitting them back together like a puzzle on his lap. The word ‘Peabody’ is smudged and wet, and Castiel reaches to wipe at his cheek. “I shouldn’t be getting awards, Dean. I shouldn’t even be alive.”

Castiel is surprised to feel Dean’s hands on his shoulders, and even more so when he’s being pulled to his feet. Dean’s arms wrap around him, strong and warm, and it’s only when he lets go that Castiel realizes it was a hug. He wishes he had the insight to return it, missing the warmth and intimacy it offered, but he doesn’t dare ask for more.

Dean emerges from the kitchen—when did he even leave the living-room?—with two tumblers of Johnny Walker, handing one to Castiel. The generous serving is perhaps more than what would be considered socially acceptable, but Castiel doesn’t much care. He finishes his drink in two large pulls.

They don’t go running that afternoon.

 

 

 

 

*

 

 

 

It becomes somewhat of a tradition for their small group to meet at the Roadhouse every second Wednesday. Being the slowest day of the week, it affords Jo the opportunity to join Castiel, Dean, Sam and Sarah for a meal and a couple of drinks. Tonight, the four of them are the only patrons present, and Jo presents each of them with a juicy burger before squeezing in beside Sarah with a tired sigh.

“Today has been such a bust,” she complains, wrinkling her nose as Dean bites into his burger with gusto.

Conversation flows easily, beer helping it along, and Castiel finds he is pleasantly loose and content in the present company. He’s discussing art history with Sarah when the door to the bar opens and they all turn to stare at the new arrival.

The yellow cardigan the woman is wearing clashes with her shockingly red hair, and Castiel is instantly reminded of Anna. Jo’s face lights up at the sight of her, lips stretched wide in a smile, and Castiel assumes this is the girlfriend he’s been hearing about. The assumption is proven correct a moment later, when the two share a rather passionate kiss.

“Ugh, gross,” comments Dean, taking a swig of his beer bottle. “‘S like watching my sisters make out.”

Jo flips him off before detaching herself from the other woman. She doesn’t let her girlfriend go, however, instead pulling her down to sit in her lap.

“You must be Cas,” the redhead says with a pleasant smile as soon as her eyes train on Castiel. She extends her hand for him to shake, and he accepts. “I’m Charlie.”

“Watch out, the nerd squad has assembled,” Dean groans, but it’s easy to pinpoint the affection in his words.

Charlie rolls her eyes. “Says the guy who’s watched Star Trek at least a hundred times.”

“Shut up,” Dean grunts, though he doesn’t deny it. “Kirk is a fucking badass.”

“I’ve always found Spock to be the most logical and enjoyable character,” Castiel points out. Dean looks at him as though Castiel stabbed him in the spleen, and their friends’ laughter carries through the bar.

“I like this one,” says Charlie, and Castiel gives a discreet smile in response.

Everyone becomes progressively tipsier as the hours tick by, the evening filled with warm, rich laughter and friendly chatter. Until, just like that, it isn’t.

Castiel turns around and catches sight of the TV screen behind him. It’s set on the local news station, reporting on a fire in an apartment building at the heart of Brooklyn. The subject matter is not that Castiel typically covers, but the grief-stricken expressions on people’s faces as they wait for their families to be rescued are all too familiar. The alcohol in his system does nothing to make it easier to handle.

Castiel shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t be in this bar, surrounded by these people and their warm laughter and easy affection; he shouldn’t be in New York, indulging selfish desires he should have outgrown, should have the will and decency to resist.

“I have to go,” he announces to the group, cutting Jo off mid-sentence. He’s out of his seat in a flash; he can hear the chair he’d been sitting on topple over in his haste, but he doesn’t bother to turn around. His vision tunnels in on the exit, everything else a mere haze in his peripheral vision, breath caught in his lungs until he reaches the double doors and pushes them open.

Panting, he makes it as far away from the Roadhouse as his shaky legs will allow, hoping no one will follow after him. He stops when he reaches an alley and leans against one of the buildings, the bricks painfully uncomfortable where they scrape his back. He slides down the wall until he hits the cold cement of the ground, hyper-aware of the suspicious looks he’s receiving from passersby on the adjacent street. He frantically pats his pockets until he feels the pack of smokes in the front of his jeans. It’s crushed, the corners of the carton slightly dented, but the cigarettes are unharmed. Putting one between his lips, he works the lighter, pausing at the sight of the flame.

Flames. Flames, like those of the fire eating away at an apartment building in Brooklyn; like those of the countless explosions he’s witnessed overseas, claiming lives with loud roars; like those of the blast that sent Samandriel flying to his death. They dance before his eyes, bright and hot and blinding. He hits his head with his hands, hoping that enough force will shake the images off once and for all. If nothing else, he hopes the headache will serve as a temporary distraction.

“Sir? Are you all right?” The voice is muffled by the sound of crackling fire in his ears, but Castiel thinks it’s young and female. She sounds concerned, and it’s yet another painful reminder of his sister, of his failures. All he can see are her shoes, round flats on slender ankles, but he doesn’t bother to lift his head.

“Leave me alone,” he pleads, voice a tired croak. “Please, please leave me alone.”

If there’s a reply, Castiel doesn’t hear it through the ringing in his ears. The shoes are out of his sight, so he assumes the woman left and hopes no one else will care enough to approach him. The unlit cigarette has fallen from his lips, now lying on the dirty concrete.

After a few long moments, he gets up, his knees making a popping noise in protest. He walks further down the street and hails a cab, rattling off his address to the middle-aged driver.

In his apartment, Castiel collapses on his bed with a bottle of Jim Beam, staring up at the ceiling. The vibration against his thigh is a painful reminder of the world outside, and he pulls his phone out with a sigh. There’s a missed call from Sarah and Dean each, a voicemail from Sam, and a text message from Dean. He pulls it up on the screen.

_U ok? Need me to come by?_

Castiel doesn’t think he can handle seeing anyone at the moment, least of all Dean, who always manages to drudge up what Castiel’s never planned to speak of. He replies with a simple _No_.

In New York, Castiel is nothing but a fraud. Nothing but an apparition, untethered and lost, neither here nor there; part of him is always at the warzone he’d just left, desperate for the opportunity to return and unable to focus on much else. The soldiers and civilians he met didn’t get to leave, didn’t get to reclaim their lives, so why should he?

 

 

 

 

*

 

 

 

“I’m thinking of going on another assignment,” Castiel tells Pamela at the start of their session. This time, he can detect the hint of surprise in her expression when she raises her eyebrows.

“I thought you were going to take a few months off,” she reminds him. “What brought this on?”

“I _have_ taken a few months off,” he corrects. “Over six, to be exact. That’s plenty of time, and there’s work that needs to be done.”

The assessing look she gives him makes him feel apprehensive and awkward in a way he hasn’t felt since their first session. “What about your treatment? We’re set to start exposure therapy next week.”

“We can pick it back up when I return,” he shrugs. He has no idea when that may be, or the state he will be in upon return. It doesn’t seem pertinent.

“Look. Ultimately, this is your decision,” Pamela says, and Castiel can sense the _but_ coming. “But I’m wondering why you’re considering this now. You’ve been making real progress in the past few months, both in this room and outside of it. You’ve built successful relationships and made real connections.” Castiel averts his eyes at her words. “Or is that precisely why you want to take off?”

“Why are you making it sound like I’m doing something wrong?” It feels like he’s on trial, but she’s already procured all necessary evidence for a guilty verdict, and he’s so tired from having to defend himself. Pamela waits patiently, giving him the time to gather his thoughts. “It is of no import. It’s only a matter of time before I have to do my job, and those relationships will crumple. I don’t get to _make connections_ —not permanent ones, anyway.”

“Why not?”

“Because it doesn’t work!” he yells in frustration. “I’m not fit to be anyone’s friend, and certainly not anything other than that. All that ends up happening is that I hurt people. I’m not going to make that mistake again.”

Dean, Sam, Sarah, Jo and Charlie have all shown him kindness and friendships he’s never experienced before, accepted him into their inner circle, and he’s thankful for it. It’s been years since he’s even had people he could refer to as his friends. He might want to hang on to that, hang on to them, but he knows it’s not a possibility. The past six months have been full of selfish indulgence, but it’s only a matter of time before Castiel has to fulfill his duty and attend to his responsibilities. And what then? Surely none of them will want to hang around when Castiel is gone for months at a time, when they figure out that his head is always overseas even when he is physically present. It’s not fair to ask that of them.

“Who are you afraid of hurting?” she asks, but Castiel doesn’t answer. “Is it Dean?”

He doesn’t answer that, either, but Pamela seems to gather everything she needs from his silence. “Cas, do you have romantic feelings for Dean?”

“He’s my best friend,” is the curt response he supplies, and they both know what it means. There’s something different about Dean, something that makes their relationship distinctly different from those he has with the others. Dean pushes Cas past his comfort zone, gets under his skin; somehow, these things make it easier to be around him. He doesn’t feel so out of sorts when he’s around Dean, doesn’t feel so abnormal.

“Does he feel the same way?”

“I don’t know.” It’s a flat-out lie; Castiel sees the way Dean looks at him, feels the electrically-charged tension between them to his very core. “Maybe.” He sighs, fiddling with his hands. “It doesn’t matter.”

“You keep saying that, but it’s pretty clear it _does_ matter to you,” she points out.

“It doesn’t matter because nothing can come of it,” Castiel clarifies. He always feels tired when she challenges him like this. “I won’t put him through what I put Balthazar through.”

“You haven’t talked about Balthazar much before,” Pamela remarks. The expression on her face is shrewd, mouth tight and nose wrinkled—she’s figured out the polynomial, but she wants Castiel to do his own math to discover the variables. It unnerves him that she’s always two steps ahead, passing all of the obstacles he’s worked so hard to place in the labyrinth.

“There’s not much to talk about,” Castiel responds, wiping his clammy hands against his jeans. “It was what it was, and it’s done.”

“You were together for three years, as I recall it, and there’s not much to talk about?” she argues, but Castiel merely lifts a shoulder in response and crosses his arms over his chest. “How did the relationship end?”

Castiel shrugs again. “Amicably. It wasn’t terribly surprising.”

“Yes, you’ve mentioned that,” she comments patiently. “I mean specifically.”

“I came back from doing an interview and his bags were packed,” he relays, idly playing with the cuff of his shirt. “I’d just returned from an assignment three days prior and I was still...adjusting. Balthazar said things couldn’t go on the way they had been, and I said I understood. Then he left. I don’t remember much else.”

“What did you do after he left?”

“I packed a bag and got on a plane,” he says, and he wonders if he’s imagining the look of surprise on Pamela’s face. “For my next assignment,” he adds.

Pam raises an eyebrow, challenging. “So one of your most significant relationships ends, and your reaction is to pack your things and book the first available flight?”

“There was work to be done,” he frowns. “What’s your point?”

“I’m wondering if you can see the pattern here, Cas,” she says, levelling him with a grave expression. “Whenever a meaningful event occurs in your life, you run.”

“I’m doing my job!” he defends, jaw tense with anger. “I’m not some fucking fugitive.”

“No?” she inquires, clearly not intending to budge.

“Did it even occur to you, Pamela, that it’s being _here_ , this room secluded from the rest of the world, that’s the equivalent of running?” He grits his teeth, fire circling through him, veins burning with its intensity.

“Honestly, Castiel, I think you’re a lot more scared of what’s in your own head, and processing your own emotions, than you are of what can happen to you when you’re in a warzone.”

The anger that’s been building inside of Castiel evaporates, nothing but smoke left from a roaring fire; he feels cold without its protective presence, body weak and shivering. How is Pamela able to mess with his head like this? Is he really nothing but the selfish, vapid shell the words suggest, using the job he once believed in so fiercely as an escape? Does he really feel safer in a warzone than the echoes in his own head?

“Cas,” Pamela says softly, and he realizes he’s been staring off into the distance. “If you go now, all that’s going to happen is that you pile more trauma on top of the existing one you’ve just started acknowledging. It’s going to catch up with you eventually.”

“The world doesn’t stop because I need therapy, Pamela,” he says quietly, his throat hoarse and voice tired. He doesn’t recall feeling this worn down before. “There are stories to be covered, events no one is paying attention to that ought to be put front and centre. I have a responsibility, and I can’t… I can’t abandon it, not for this.”

“The weight of the entire world doesn’t fall on your shoulders, Castiel,” she reasons, her expression kind. “What about the responsibility you have for yourself?”

There’s nothing Castiel can say to that, electing to stare at his chewed-up nails.

“You’re scared, Cas,” she repeats, as though she hasn’t driven that point home already, as if Castiel needs another reminder of what a coward he is. “You ran away from the pain of losing Balthazar, and now you’re running away from your feelings for Dean, whatever they may be.”

The words are like daggers, and they drive into Castiel with force, leaving him bloody and defenseless. He looks up in surprise, mouth agape. “That’s not... I don’t...”

“In fact, you’ve been running for much longer than that,” she continues. “You’ve been running away from the grief of losing your father, and later your mother—”

“Stop it!” Castiel screams, vaulting up from his seat. There’s an earthquake inside of him, tremors seizing up his entire body, and it’s going to send everything toppling down. “Why are you doing this?”

“You can’t run forever,” Pamela responds, her voice soft and gentle, like she’s speaking to a spooked animal. “You have to let yourself feel these things, Cas.”

The hammering in his chest doesn’t let up, the sound of rushing blood pounding in his ears. The taste of bile is sharp and heavy in the back of his throat. “Easy for you to sit there and _say_ that,” he accuses, feeling betrayed and angry that she would say these things to him.

“I’m not saying any of this will be easy,” Pamela says, and Castiel recognizes the genuine concern in her eyes. “But what kind of life can you have if you won’t let yourself feel anything?”

With a sigh, Castiel flops back into his seat, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’ve managed so far,” he tries, but the protest is weak to his own ears.

“Except it doesn’t seem to be making you very happy,” she says. He doesn’t meet her eyes, staring at the painting hung above her head, transfixed by how such vividly bright colours can swirl to create such a bleak image. The atmosphere in the room is tension-laden, the silence stretching like a loose elastic band that’s about to snap. “Do you remember what you told me when I’d asked you why you have a different last name than your father?”

His eyes snap up at that, brows furrowed as he tries to decipher the meaning behind the question. “I told you I changed my last name because I didn’t want my career to advance due to our relation.”

“The exact words you used,” she corrects, “were ‘I don’t want to live under his shadow.’”

Bemused, Castiel considers this. Had those words come out of his mouth?

“Part of you wants to let go,” Pamela continues, and Castiel hides his face in his hands. “You’ve lived your whole life trying to become someone your dad would approve of, but there’s a part of you that wants to be your own person, to have the freedom to live your life as _you_ see fit.” The words are like a lightning bolt to his senses, crackling all the way down his spine, paralyzing. “It’s okay to want things for yourself, Cas.”

“Is it?” he questions, mumbling into his hands. How is he supposed to abandon his only sense of identity for the past thirty years, abdicate his responsibility to his family?

“Did it ever occur to you that all he would want is for you to be happy?”

Castiel is struck by the realization it truly hadn’t; all he’d focused on was honouring his father’s memory by following his footsteps. It’s all that’s ever mattered, the only thing he’s given consideration to; it’s been the driving force behind every decision he’s made, every action he’s taken, the end goal which he planned the entirety of his life around. He’s never stopped to wonder if it was going to make him happy, because it hardly seemed relevant; that sort of language was never in his lexicon, and here Pamela is, telling him it matters. Is he supposed to believe it?

Castiel chose his line of work because it was the only way he could maintain a connection to his father; if he applied himself enough, if he elected to excel at what his father loved so dearly, had given his life to, his absence would not be felt as strongly. If he kept moving, wandering around from one disaster-torn location to another, he would surely maintain his father’s legacy, would experience the closeness he so desperately craved.

Anna’s words were the first to tilt that conviction upside down. The memories he had of his father were so few, and he’s no longer sure of their certainty, either; it could easily be a trick of his mind, selective snapshots from a life Castiel only envisioned. The human mind is a deceptive, fragile machine, and it likely reconstructed and overprocessed the truth Castiel could never hope to learn. No matter how far he travels, how many pictures of decomposed flesh and firing ammunition he will take, there are things about his father Castiel will never come to learn. It is such a silly, childish belief to hold, that he could be close to his father and pretend he’d never left by immersing himself in this job, the one thing he knew about his father; and, like a sledgehammer to his head, Castiel is struck with the sheer amount of time he’s wasted holding on to it, allowing it to govern his life. The mess he’s made of his life because of it, trying to hold on to a person that has long since been gone.

“What have I been doing?” he asks no one in particular, hands fisting in his hair. For thirty-odd years he has given no consideration to his desires, has relinquished any sense of self in pursuit of a ghost. Every move he’s made in his life had been anchored around the responsibility he felt toward his family, no thought given to his own needs and desires—He has absolutely no idea what it even _is_ he wants or needs. He’s been nothing but a soldier blindly following orders, and he has no clue how to take diction of his own life.

His voice is shaky when he speaks again, the words heavy as lead on his tongue. “What have I done with my life, Pam?”

A comforting hand finds his shoulder, and he’s surprised to discover Pamela sitting next to him on the couch. “It doesn’t have to be like this, Cas,” she says, and he wants to believe it’s a promise. “Whether you remain friends or become something else, your relationship with Dean doesn’t have to be like the one you had with Balthazar—none of the relationships you’ve developed have to. I know you’re scared, but you can still love and cherish your father while living for yourself.”

“I don’t know how to do that,” he confesses, closing his eyes to try and will down the bile and dread in his throat. The thought of _choice_ feels like nothing but a length of rope to hang himself with.

“Stop running, Cas,” she says. Castiel recognizes it’s a suggestion, not an instruction; the decision is his to make—not Pamela’s, and not his father’s. All of it is in his hands, clay for him to mold a life with. “Stop running from yourself.”

 

 

 

 

*

 

 

 

Hockey, it turns out, holds Castiel’s interest much better than football does. Initially, Dean had mocked him, rolling his eyes and teasing Cas for being “so fucking Canadian.” Even so, he’s been watching most of the NHL games with Castiel, and Friday night finds them catching the latest match at the Roadhouse, sharing a large order of fries and chatting with Jo during commercials.

They’re discussing the merits of a particular play when Castiel hears a familiar voice somewhere behind him. The fact he hasn’t heard it in close to a year doesn’t stop him from recognizing the accented lilt and he freezes, leaving his sentence unfinished.

“Cassie?”

Castiel turns around in his stool, meeting Balthazar’s surprised blue eyes. He’s wearing his signature V-neck t-shirt with a dark blazer and faded jeans. The sight of him is both different and familiar, at arms reach and unattainable.

“Balthazar,” he says dumbly.

 

 

_The sound of the closing zipper assaulted Castiel’s ears as Balthazar finished packing his belongings. Castiel sat immobile on the bed, watching Balthazar’s hands as he worked, looking through drawers for forgotten possessions. The closet was already bare of his clothing._

_“Have you heard a word I just said?” Balthazar asked, looking at Castiel expectantly._

_“Yes,” he confirmed, fisting the duvet cover beneath his fingers. It wasn’t totally true; Castiel had tuned out much of the conversation, but the bottom-line was successfully communicated. The packed bags at Balthazar’s feet were self-explanatory. “You’re leaving me.”_

_There was a loud sigh, and then Balthazar sat down on the other side of the bed, keeping a five-foot distance between them. The wall between them was the result of Castiel’s groundwork; he’d laid every brick carefully, coating it in a thorough layer of mortar. Still, the physical evidence was a violent, painful shock he was not prepared for._

_“Things can’t go on like this, Cassie,” Balthazar whispered. The familiar moniker only served as an added punch, and Castiel wished Balthazar wouldn’t be crass enough to use it at this time. “You’re never here anymore.”_

_“I’m doing my job, Balthazar,” Castiel defended, response at the ready. “You knew I’d be travelling often when we started this—”_

_“No,” Balthazar interrupted, “that’s not what I’m talking about.” He reached out and stroked Castiel’s cheek with the back of his palm, the friction between smooth skin and coarse stubble creating a loud sound. “I can handle the physical distance. I can handle the threat that presents itself whenever you get on a plane. I can handle all these things as long as I have you. What I can’t handle is you not being in this, in the present, and constantly being in_ there _,” he tapped Castiel’s temple with two fingers. “You’re never_ here _. I don’t have you anymore, Cas.”_

_Having no response to that, Castiel looked down at his bare feet. Balthazar’s hand dropped from his face, and he couldn’t help but feel he was disappointing him all over again. The static in his head got louder._

_“You need help, Cas,” Balthazar’s words were quiet, tentative, like he’d been practicing them in his head but could never voice them until now._

_“Don’t you dare make this about me!” Castiel spat, anger bubbling up inside of him, making his muscles tense. He didn’t need_ help _—the people whose life he observed and documented needed help. “You’re the one who’s leaving._ You _are choosing to end this.”_

_“Because I can’t stand to see you like this!” Balthazar bellowed, but it carried more desperation than anger. “I tried, Cassie, but you’re not giving me anything to work with. I can’t—_ we _can’t go on like this. Something has to change.”_

_There it was: a confirmation of Castiel’s failures, concrete evidence for the validity of his self-flagellation._

_“I love you,” Balthazar whispered, startling Castiel’s body into a jerking motion. It was rare that they said those words to each other, choosing instead to prove them with their actions and bodies. Castiel turned to look at his partner, noting the worry lines crinkling his eyes and mouth. They were there because of Castiel, scars he etched onto Balthazar’s skin and heart._

_“God help me, I_ love _you, Castiel,” he repeated, and Castiel hated himself a little bit more the more he repeated it. Balthazar took his hand, squeezing his fingers. “Please, get help,” he begged, scooting closer until their thighs were brushing. “I’ll stay, and we’ll get through this together. Just please,_ please _... say you’ll get help.”_

_Castiel stared at their clasped hands, tracing the skin of Balthazar’s palm with his thumb. He wanted desperately to close the distance between them, attach their mouths and forget about this dreadful conversation. Last night they’d been tangled up in each other, post-coital, and now they were here, incorrigible and on the verge of collapse._

_Three years. In that time, Balthazar had always been there for him, waiting patiently for his return, welcoming Castiel home with a warm embrace and an affectionate kiss. Castiel remembered how he used to feel around him, the pleasant lurch he’d get in his stomach with every touch. The memories were like a shadow, following him around but unable to be captured; the feeling in his stomach nothing but a copy of what it once was, smudged and blurry._

_“But you’re not going to, are you?” Balthazar asked, breaking the tense silence Castiel had lapsed into._

_Castiel swallowed audibly and closed his eyes, feeling the bed shift as Balthazar removed his weight, taking his warmth with him. When he opened his eyes, Balthazar was standing at the bedroom door, leaning against the frame with a duffle bag in each hand. Their eyes locked for a long moment, and Balthazar dropped the bags on the floor, charging over to the bed, planting a knee between Castiel’s spread legs and using his weight to push them back against the mattress._

_Castiel didn’t dare to hope it was meant to mend anything between them, and took it instead for what it was: a goodbye. He pawed at the back of Balthazar’s shirt, clutching at the fabric as their mouths crushed together in a violent kiss, tongues desperate and hurried. Castiel slipped his hand under the cotton of his shirt and pulled on Balthazar’s bottom lip, nibbling on the soft flesh as Balthazar ran a hand through his hair. He tried to memorize as much as he could: the feel of Balthazar’s skin beneath his fingers, the firm press of his body, the inviting smoothness of his lips and mouth._

_They were both breathless by the time they pulled apart, panting and staring into each other’s eyes. “I’m sorry,” Castiel croaked. The words could not possibly convey all that he wanted to say, could never ameliorate what he’d broken, but the least Castiel could do was extend them._

_Balthazar shook his head softly, tracing his thumb over Castiel’s lips. He leaned down to bring their lips together in one last, closed-mouthed kiss. “Take care of yourself, Cassie.”_

_With that, Balthazar pulled himself away from Castiel, leaving him to watch as he picked up the duffle bags and left the room. When Castiel heard the front door closing, he leaned his head back against the mattress. He squeezed his eyes shut, pressing the heels of his hands against them to try and stop the building moisture. The wristwatch on his hand was ticking loudly, and Castiel tore it off his wrist, throwing it across the room. The glass made a satisfying crunching sound as it shattered._

_Sliding off the bed, Castiel dug his mostly-unpacked suitcase from the closet. After emptying the dirty clothes onto the floor, he refocused on the closet and started ripping shirts from their hangers, throwing them inside the suitcase._

_He’d planned on staying in New York for another two weeks, but there was nothing to keep him here any longer._

 

 

Balthazar opens and closes his mouth, his eyes wide as they take Castiel in. “This is...” he drops the sentence, seeming as lost as Castiel feels.

“Awkward,” Castiel finishes for him. It’s suddenly ten degrees hotter in the room, and he barely manages to resist the urge to pull on the collar of his shirt.

Balthazar lets out a genuine, lighthearted laugh. Castiel tries not to think about how long it’s been since he’s heard the sound—it’s been even longer since he’s been the cause of it. “I was going to say unexpected, but that works, too.”

Castiel bites his lower lip, dropping his gaze to the floor. He wonders if it’s final exams that brought Balthazar here—April seemed to be a particularly stressful month for him, having to construct final exams and grade them, only to start planning the material for his spring classes once that was done. “Those bloody first years, Cassie, I swear,” he used to bemoan whenever he got to grading the essay portion of his introductory classes. Castiel made an effort to be around more often during that time, comforting Balthazar with late-night makeout sessions and morning sex.

The memories dredge up a painful pang in Castiel’s stomach; at the same time, they cause a warm surge of fondness to run through his body, and Castiel feels the corners of his mouth twitch. It’s strange and profoundly confusing to feel such contradictory emotions at the same time.

“You look good, Cas,” Balthazar says. There’s sincerity in his voice, but there’s also a hint of curiosity, an inquiry he doesn’t dare voice.

Castiel makes an effort to meet his eye, hesitating before he speaks. Balthazar deserves to know and understand; Castiel owes him the honesty he’s withheld during their relationship, even if it’s too little and too late. It’s difficult to force the words out. “I’ve been seeing someone,” he says. Balthazar’s face falls and his eyes dart over to Dean, giving him a once-over. Castiel’s cheeks flush when he realizes how the statement must have been perceived. “No, I—I meant I’m seeing a professional. For—for help.”

The emotions that play across Balthazar’s face are difficult to pinpoint, but Castiel thinks there is both sadness and relief in his expression. “That’s great, Cas,” he finally says. The bar erupts in raucous cheers as something happens on the television screen behind them, but Castiel doesn’t take his eyes off of Balthazar. “I’m—I’m proud of you.”

Castiel doesn’t know how to respond—the statement is so bewildering and unexpected, sending his stomach and heart plummeting. It shouldn’t have taken him this long to extricate those words from Balthazar, and he’s not certain he can ever forgive himself for what he’s put this man through. “T-thank you,” he manages to stutter. What he wants to say is _Thank you for being there, thank you for believing in me. Thank you for giving when I couldn’t give anything back._

“Well, I should get going,” Balthazar says, shifting his weight and burying his hands in his jeans pockets. “It was good seeing you, Cassie,” he adds, sounding like he means it. A small, lopsided smile stretches his lips. “Take care of yourself.”

With that, he turns around and walks out of the bar. Castiel watches until his figure disappears down the street, turning around to face the bar.

“Can I get a whiskey, please,” he requests once he’s got Jo’s attention. She places a glass tumbler in front of him, filling it with the amber-coloured liquid before hurrying to serve another customer on the other side of the bar island.

“Who was that?” Castiel can feel Dean’s eyes on him as he downs his drink, the alcohol burning pleasantly at the back of his throat.

“My former romantic partner,” he responds, swiping his tongue against his lips to clear all traces of his drink.

“Bad breakup?” Dean inquires cautiously, curious but wary of prying.

“Not quite,” Castiel says, staring into his empty tumbler and wondering whether Jo would serve him a refill. In fact, perhaps he could ask for the bottle.

“Bad relationship, then?”

Castiel mulls the question over. They’d been together for three long years, and Castiel had loved Balthazar—back when he was capable of such emotions—and more so than he ever thought possible. At the same time, Castiel had failed him spectacularly as a partner, had absolutely nothing to offer.

“No,” he tries. Dean must notice the hesitation in his voice because he raises an eyebrow, waiting for an explanation. “Balthazar is a good man. I just didn’t have enough in me to be the partner he deserved—I wasn’t even much of a friend.” Part of him wonders if, perhaps, they can attempt to build a friendship in due time. He’d like that very much.

“I can’t speak for your past,” Dean starts, wetting his lips before he continues. He looks oddly vulnerable like this, and Castiel is so absorbed in tracing the path of his tongue he barely registers the words that follow. “But you’re the best friend I’ve ever had, Cas.”

 

 

 

 

*

 

 

 

“Are you sure this is alright?” Castiel asks as they drive past a sign that says _Singer Auto Salvage_. The property is huge, acres upon acres covered in trees, wrecked cars stacked on top of each other.

“Cas, it’s fine,” Dean promises as he parks the Impala in front of the house. He said the same thing when Castiel asked the question four hours ago as they started the drive to Pennsylvania. “You’re welcome here.”

“I don’t want to intrude,” Castiel says as they pile out of the car, clutching on to the duffle bag he’s packed for the weekend. “This is meant to be a family weekend.”

“You _are_ family, Cas,” Sam says with a clap to his shoulder. “Besides, Bobby and Ellen put up with Dean, so it’s not like they can have it any worse,” he adds with a wink.

“I heard that, bitch!” Dean says as he and Sarah unload the trunk.

“Jerk,” Sam responds with a smile.

Despite the reassurance from the Winchesters, Castiel still feels nervous when they walk up to the front door. The people he’s about to meet and spend the rest of his weekend with are the closest thing Dean and Sam have to parental figures, and he feels out of place and intrusive.

Sarah nudges his elbow as they wait, giving him a warm smile that manages to alleviate some of his anxiety, if only for a moment.

A man with a grey beard and a well-worn trucker hat opens the door, staring down at the four people on his front porch. “Well, are you idjits gonna come in, or are you gonna sleep on that damn porch?”

“You haven’t lost your touch, old man,” Dean says with a smile, wrapping his arms around the man as soon as he walks in. Castiel hangs back at the entrance, letting Sam and Sarah pass into the house.

“Hey, Bobby,” Sam greets with a smile.

“Good to see you, son,” Bobby says in response, pulling him in for a hug. “And you, Sarah,” he adds as he gives her a hug, too, pulling back to examine her. “You still planning on marrying his ugly mug?” he points to Sam with his thumb. “Seems like you’re selling yourself short.”

Sarah laughs good-naturedly, sneaking her arm around Sam’s waist. “I’m definitely marrying him,” she looks up to meet Sam’s beaming face, and they share a brief kiss.

Bobby’s attention turns to Castiel, looking him up and down. Castiel shifts under the scrutiny, wondering if perhaps he should have stayed in New York, if it’s too big of an intrusion.

Dean comes over, clapping a hand on Castiel’s shoulder. “Bobby, this is my friend Castiel. Cas, Bobby.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Sir,” Castiel says, extending his right hand. Bobby looks at it before finally accepting, his grip strong as they shake hands.

“Call me ‘Sir’ again and we’re going to have a problem,” he says. “It’s Bobby, son.”

A short, brunette woman walks into the room just then, and Castiel is glad for the distraction. “I thought I heard a commotion out here,” she says with an easy smile.

“Ellen!” Dean exclaims, wrapping his arms around her and lifting her up in a hug. She exchanges hugs with the others, too, until she ends up in front of Castiel.

“Cas, this is Ellen Harvelle,” Dean introduces.

Her expression is friendly but guarded, and Castiel can definitely believe she’s Jo’s mother. He most certainly doesn’t want to get on her bad side. “Nice to meet you, ma’am.”

“What did you just call me?”

Bobby heaves a sigh. “Boy has a thing for formality.”

Ellen looks him over. “This ain’t the White House, son. You call everyone here by the name their momma gave them, capiche?”

“Yes, ma’—yes.”

“Good. Now let’s get you all settled in.”

 

 

It’s past midnight when the celebration dies down. Bobby dozes off after too many drinks, Sam and Sarah clean up the leftovers, and Dean and Charlie are engaged in an intense debate about the best character in Star Wars while Ellen and Jo roll their eyes at them. Castiel slips out to the porch, a bottle of beer in his hand, craving nicotine and solitude. A light breeze is picking up, making him shiver in his thin t-shirt, but he settles down on the first step anyway and lights a cigarette. He alternates between sips of alcohol and puffs of smoke, the combined taste heavy and pleasing on his tongue.

The weekend has been a pleasant one, and Castiel is thankful for the welcome he’s received. Dean’s family is warm and charming, and it’s easy to fall into their banter and obvious affection for each other. He’s grateful and humbled that Dean invited him here, has extended an invitation to this warm sanctuary that hosts some of his best memories. Even so, Castiel feels like an intruder, a drifter who’s passing by and has no permanency. It’s the life he’s made for himself, and he’s never before had a problem with the transient nature of it. Now, part of him is envious of the ways in which this family is connected, the history that tethers them to each other more efficiently than a bloodline ever could.

His mind immediately shifts toward his last few sessions with Pamela, the dread that has lingered in his gut for the past few weeks becoming inescapable. Anna’s words about their childhood resurface in his mind, and he hopes to never be remembered the way she remembers their father.

The door makes a creaking sound behind him, and Castiel makes no move to investigate its source. Dean’s shoulder rubs against his as he joins him on the stoop. Neither of them says anything.

“Can I bum one of those?” Dean’s voice startles him, the strange request making Castiel turn to look at his friend.

“You don’t smoke,” he states even as he offers the pack. Dean fishes a cigarette out of the carton and lights it with expert hands, taking a long drag and staring at the burning filter. The elegant fluidity with which he performs the motions suggests they are familiar and comfortable.

“Picked it up after I enlisted, actually,” Dean says, and Castiel’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline at the new information. He doesn’t protest when Dean reaches for his beer and takes a long swig. “Sammy made me give it up a couple of years after my discharge, though,” he adds with a small smile.

They smoke in companionable silence, passing the beer back and forth.

“So, what has you looking all doom-and-gloom?” Dean asks after a while. It’s unclear how long they’ve been sitting outside, and Castiel hopes he’s not keeping Dean from his family.

“It’s nothing,” he says. There is no point bothering his friend with things he barely understands himself.

“C’mon, Cas,” Dean urges, the lines around his eyes becoming visible as his face wrinkles in a solemn expression. Castiel has the strange desire to trace them with his fingertips. “Talk to me.”

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Castiel confesses finally, tightening his fingers on the neck of the beer bottle and picking at the label. “I don’t even feel like a person.” He has spent so much of his life observing, he doesn’t think he knows _how_ to live.

“What do you mean?”

“I’m thirty-two years old, and I’ve spent my entire life trying to preserve the legacy of a man I don’t even know. I have no idea who I am outside of this job and this makeshift identity I’ve borrowed.” He takes a deep breath before what he wants to say next, the words he’s been scared to voice for fear of cementing their accuracy. “I don’t know who I am, Dean.” The admission makes him dizzy, and he rests his head against his knees to fight the growing panic in his chest. He focuses on his breathing, just like Pamela taught him, hoping it will stop him from spiraling out of control.

“I do,” Dean says, tilting Castiel’s chin up with his thumb and index fingers, forcing their eyes to meet. “You’re a stubborn asshole who’s really shitty at asking for help, but you’re getting better at it. You’re a fucking nightmare first thing in the morning — for fuck’s sake, I have never met anymore more grumpy in my life. You have no concept of personal space and you talk like you’ve got a stick up your ass.” The fond smile on Dean’s face takes the bite out of the words, and Castiel finds he’s holding his breath. “You’re one of the biggests nerds I know, and that’s counting Sam and Charlie. You’re the only person who can drink me under the table and is able to outrun me—though I’ll fucking end you if you repeat any of this.” Another smile, and Dean’s thumb swipes at the bottom of his mouth. There’s an ache in Castiel’s chest, now, but it has little to do with what’s been bothering him. “You have an unhealthy attachment to your camera, and that’s coming from the guy whose longest relationship has been with his car—I mean, remember the time I picked up your favourite camera? I thought you were going to fucking murder me, man. You’re willing to do whatever it takes for the things you believe in. You’re Anna’s pain-in-the-ass little brother. You’re my best friend.” There’s a slight trembling to Dean’s touch, now, and Castiel is relieved to know he’s not the only one feeling vulnerable. “You’re Cas. You’ll figure out the rest.”

Castiel lets out the breath he’s been holding, noticing the way Dean’s eyes fixate on his lips. He hadn’t even realized those things about himself, and he certainly had no clue someone has been paying close enough attention to pick up on them. It’s exhilarating and terrifying at once.

Castiel is silent as Dean lets go of his face, missing the touch and intimacy it offered but mostly feeling relieved. There is too much for him to figure out, too much weighing on his mind to add yet another confusing emotion he’s not yet ready to decipher.

“I miss him,” he settles for saying, his voice quiet and foreign to his own ears. “How is it possible to miss someone you’ve barely known?”

Dean shrugs in response, stealing the bottle from Castiel’s hands to finish the last of the beer. “I don’t know, man,” he says, the glass making a clinking sound as he puts it down. There’s hesitation in his voice when he speaks next, like the words want to remain lodged in his throat but he’s forcing them out. “I miss mom every day, and I never knew her—not really, anyway. I miss the person my dad was before he lost her.”

“For what it’s worth,” Castiel says as he covers Dean’s hand with his own, “I’m certain she would’ve been proud of you. They both would be.”

 

 

 

It’s two-thirty AM when Castiel’s phone lights up with a message from Dean. They bid their goodnights about ten minutes ago, and he’s been lying in bed and staring at the ceiling, unable to fall asleep. He unlocks the screen to open the message.

_I’m not the only one who feels it, am I?_ , the text says. _Tell me I’m not crazy, Cas._

Castiel stares at his phone for a long moment, expecting the words to morph into something different. There’s no question in his mind what Dean is referring to, and his chest tightens with anticipation and anxiety. It’s only when his phone buzzes again that he realizes he hasn’t responded.

_Fuck, I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry._

Castiel’s fingers hesitate on the touchscreen. At the end, he can’t allow Dean to believe he’s alone in this, and he owes him honesty. _You’re not crazy._ , he types, pressing send before he can change his mind.

The reply is instant. _Then what are we waiting for, Cas?_

It would be so easy to walk downstairs to where Dean is, take what he’s wanted—what they’ve _both_ wanted, it seems—for a while, alleviate the longing he feels whenever they’re around each other. He wants like he’s never wanted before, but Castiel knows it wouldn’t be right, not just yet.

_I’m not ready yet_ , he texts back, chewing on his lip as he waits for the response. It doesn’t come right away, so he types another message. _I’m sorry, Dean._

When he feels the vibration in his hand, Castiel takes a deep breath before opening the new message. What he reads makes his lips twitch with a smile, and he stares at the screen for a long time.

_Then I’ll wait._

 

 

 

 

*

 

 

The article is nearly finished when Castiel’s phone starts ringing. He chooses to ignore it in favour of rereading the paragraph he’d just written, making small changes along the way. The ringing persists, however, and Castiel glances at the caller ID to see Dean’s number lighting up the screen. He taps to accept the call.

“Hello?”

“Cas?” The female voice on the other end is familiar, but it’s muffled by background noise and he can’t place it. He checks to confirm it’s Dean’s number calling him.

“It is,” he affirms, suspicious of the reason this person is using Dean’s phone to contact him. “Who am I speaking with?”

“It’s Jo,” she says, and he immediately relaxes, until it occurs to him this is likely not a social call. “Look, I’m sorry to call you like this, but... Is there any way you can come to the bar to get Dean? I’d call him a cab home, but I don’t think he should be alone right now.”

“What’s wrong?” he asks, already grabbing his keys and jacket.

“He’s drunk as a skunk, that’s what,” Jo sighs. “I’d take him home myself, but it’s crazy in here and we’re already short-staffed. Sam’s out of town, so I figured I’d call you.”

“I’ll be there soon,” he states before hanging up, locking the door behind him and taking off down the street.

 

Jo wasn’t exaggerating when she said the Roadhouse was busy; that much becomes clear as soon Castiel walks in the door, pushing past the crowd to find his friend. She wasn’t lying about Dean’s level of inebriation, either—in fact, she may have downplayed it. Dean’s sitting in the corner, head and arms strewn over the surface of the bar, trying to convince the bartender to serve him another drink.

“I think you’ve had enough,” Castiel says when he’s close enough to be heard over the music.

Dean turns to him with a confused look on his face, blinking rapidly. “Cas?”

“It’s time to go, Dean,” Cas says, putting an arm around Dean’s shoulder to escort him out. Surprisingly, he’s not met with any resistance; Dean follows along, though he staggers and trips over his own feet. Jo appears from behind the bar, and together she and Cas manage to put him in a waiting cab. After the first five minutes of the car ride, Castiel gives up on trying to make sense of his friend’s slurred speech and incoherent mumbling.

They head straight into the bathroom once they arrive in Castiel’s apartment, and Dean wastes no time getting acquainted with the toilet. Castiel hunches next to him and rubs a comforting hand between his shoulderblades as he retches.

“I feel like shit,” Dean says after fifteen minutes of silence, still hugging the cold porcelain. There’s a reason he spent his evening getting drunk, Castiel knows, but he has no intentions to pry and press the matter. If Dean so pleases, he will listen; until then, Castiel intends to give him the space he needs.

“I’m afraid you won’t feel any better tomorrow.”

“Always so blunt,” Dean chuckles. “‘S what I like about you, Cas.”

He doesn’t acknowledge the comment, choosing instead to sit down on the floor, leaning his back against the cold wall.

“Jo called you, didn’t she?” Dean asks.

“She was worried about you,” Castiel explains. “We both were.”

“Thank fuck Sammy isn’t here to see me like this,” Dean says with a cackle, staring at his hands. “Man, he’d be fuckin’ pissed.”

When another ten minutes go by, it’s clear Dean’s emptied his stomach from all that he could. Castiel helps him back to the living room, sitting him down on the couch with a bottle of water to drink.

“Dad’s birthday’s today,” Dean finally says, voice breaking on the words. Castiel doesn’t comment, patiently waiting for him to gather his thoughts. “Would’ve been his sixtieth.”

“I’m sorry,” Castiel says sincerely, and he is; he’s sorry for Dean’s loss and pain and the fact it will always be there. Loss of such calibre is felt daily, but birthdays and anniversaries amplify it, drilling into the ache and destroying any healing that may have occurred. Dean hasn’t explicitly said so, but Castiel suspects this is the first time he and Sam have spent the date apart, and it must add salt to injury.

“I used to worship the guy,” Dean says quietly, chuckling. “Wanted to be just like him. It drove Sammy nuts.” It soon turns into a full-body laugh, startling Castiel; there’s something ugly and mangled about it, and he never wants to hear Dean emit it again. “Now, though... it’s like every year I realize what a shitty excuse for a father he was.”

The words are surprising, but Castiel manages to mask his shock, reminding himself he’s here to listen and nothing else. Dean has never used that sort of language when speaking of his father, but it’s clear he’s trying to unravel something that has been burdening him for a long time, a grief that has remained unacknowledged and neglected.

“The son of a bitch had another kid,” Dean chokes out, and the throaty sound that follows resembles a sob. “He had a kid, and he never told any of us.” Castiel’s heart sinks, a lump situating itself in his throat. His fists ball up, and he can only imagine the betrayal Dean must feel. “I went through some of his stuff left in storage a couple of months ago, and there were all these documents and pictures—years worth of them. I haven’t even told Sam.” He buries his head in his hands, the sound of his next words muffled and small. “Fuck. How am I going to tell Sammy?”

“You don’t have to keep your father’s secrets, Dean. It’s not on you,” Castiel says, scooting closer to Dean and putting a hand on his back. “Sam can handle it.”

“He shouldn’t have to,” Dean says bitterly. Sam is constantly Dean’s first priority and concern—of course he’d be angrier on Sam’s behalf than his own.

“Neither should you,” Castiel counters. Someone has to remind Dean of his own entitlement to anger and sadness and hurt, and Castiel will do so until his voice is hoarse and tired.

They don’t say anything for a while, and the only sound is that of passing cars outside the apartment.

“He took him to baseball games,” Dean blurts. “He’s never taken us anywhere—he never even showed up to any of Sammy’s games.” He stops to take a deep breath. “It’s not fair. I had to take care of Sam—and I tried, Cas, I tried so fucking hard, but he needed his _father_ , not some shitty substitute. He deserved to have that. Why’d that other kid get to have a dad, but he couldn’t bother to do the same for his own family? _We needed him!_ ” By this point, Dean is yelling, his face completely obstructed by his hands; it’s the tremors in his shoulders that inform Castiel he’s crying. “What did I do wrong? Why wasn’t I enough for him?”

“You’ve done a better job raising Sam than your dad ever could have,” Castiel insists, and he means it wholeheartedly; Sam is a remarkable, resilient young man because of his brother, and he needs Dean to see that. Without thinking, Castiel pulls Dean to him, tucking him against his chest with his head under Castiel’s chin. He kisses the top of Dean’s head, just like Anna used to do when they were kids and Castiel was upset. “It’s not your fault, Dean. You’re enough. You’re more than enough.”

“Fuck him,” Dean says once his breathing evens out. The words are acrid and heavy, and Castiel suspects part of Dean doesn’t mean them; it’d likely be much easier on him if he did.

“Fuck him,” Castiel parrots, his own indignation creeping through.

Dean stares at him for a long moment, and Castiel is about to apologize when he throws his head back and laughs. For a second, he’s relieved, but Dean’s laugh is hysterical, giving way to wretched sobs that shake his entire body. The fabric of Castiel’s shirt is quickly dampening, and Dean twists the material between his fingers, clinging. It only takes ten minutes before Dean falls asleep against his chest, the alcohol and heightened emotional state taking a physical toll, but Castiel stays with him for a long time after that.

When his phone vibrates in his pocket, Castiel worries Dean will wake at the sound. He doesn’t, so Castiel reaches for it without checking the display, keeping his voice to a whisper. “Hello?”

“Cas,” It’s Sam’s voice on the other end, and it’s frantic, “Look, I—I’m sorry for calling so late, but Dean’s phone is off, and I need to make sure he’s alright. Do you know where he is?”

“Dean is fine, Sam—”

“Cas,” Sam interrupts, “Today’s kind of a big deal, okay, and he—”

“I know,” Castiel cuts in. One Winchester has already had to relive the tale of their painful childhood, and he wants to spare Sam from having to rehash it, too. “I know what today is, Sam.”

“He told you?” Sam asks, and it’s easy to recognize the surprise colouring his tone. “He’s with you, isn’t he?”

“He is,” Castiel confirms, looking down at the man in question.

Sam sighs in relief. “How is he?”

“Resting,” says Castiel. Biting his lips, he wonders how much information he should disclose; he doesn’t want to worry Sam, or betray Dean, but lying to one friend for the sake of the other doesn’t sit well with him. “He got heavily intoxicated, but I removed him from the situation before it became unsafe. He’s sleeping it off.”

“Dammit,” Sam’s tone seems to carry concern more than exasperation, and Castiel can practically hear the pained frown on his face. “This is the first time we’ve been apart for his birthday,” he relies, confirming Castiel’s earlier suspicion. “I shouldn’t have left for this stupid conference,” he adds, sounding distant. “Alright, well, I can catch the next flight home—”

Castiel stops him. “Sam,” he says, “This isn’t your fault, and convincing yourself it is will hardly be of any help to Dean. I’m taking care of him, and you can speak with him in a couple of days when you get back. All right?”

“Okay, yeah, all right,” agrees Sam, still slightly breathy. “Thanks, Cas. You’re a good friend.”

“There is nothing to thank me for, Sam.”

“I’m serious,” Sam insists, “I know there are things no one else can ever really understand, and Dean can’t explain. You… you get him, Cas. I’m glad he has that in you—I’m glad both of you get to have that. You’re good for him.”

“He’s been good to me,” Castiel responds, stealing another glance at Dean asleep on his chest.

 

 

 

A loud thump wakes Castiel. It’s 5:38 in the morning, and he’s surprised to realize he slept without any interruptions. Still drowsy from sleep, he barely registers the faint groaning coming from the direction of the living-room. He gets up to investigate, the murmurs becoming louder as he pads his way down the hall, finding Dean tossing in his sleep. The blanket Castiel covered him with is discarded on the floor, and there’s sweat gathered on his brow and soaking his t-shirt. The murmuring is indistinct, but what’s clear is that Dean is having a nightmare.

“Dean,” Castiel calls loudly, hoping it will be enough to wake him up. It doesn’t work, and Dean starts thrashing about, crying out _No, no, no, don’t!_ “Dean!” Castiel shouts again, shaking his shoulder.

It happens in a split second: Dean screams “Get away from me!” and pushes against Castiel’s chest, sending him toppling backwards. Unable to catch his balance, he lands on the floor, head catching against the coffee table as he falls.

“Shit!” he exclaims, head throbbing and spots darting in front of his eyes.

“Cas?” Dean calls, sounding confused. “Shit, Cas!” His face appears above Castiel, eyes wide and frantic and incredibly guilty. “Fuck, I’m sorry. I thought... I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” he promises, accepting Dean’s hand when he outstretches it in an offer of help. He doesn’t need Dean to explain it; the last thing he wants is to make his friend re-live what he’d just dreamt of.

“It’s not fine,” Dean says stubbornly, checking Castiel over as soon as he’s on his feet. He brushes Castiel’s hair away from his face, gently stroking the spot where he hit his forehead. “I hurt you.”

There’s sure to be an angry bump on his forehead for the next few days, but it’s nothing time won’t heal. “It’s nothing serious.”

Dean removes his hand, collapsing back on the couch with a sigh. “It could have been,” he states, and Castiel hates the self-deprecation that creeps into the words. “Fuck. I thought I was over this shit. It’s been... a long time since it’s been this bad.”

Castiel sits down next to him, feeling helpless and uncertain of what to say. There’s no way Dean can fall back asleep now, and he hopes his presence provides even a small measure of comfort.

“I’m sorry, Cas.”

“Dean, you have nothing to apologize for.”

“Yes, I do!” Dean shouts, balling his fingers into fists. “I could’ve hurt you, I could’ve hurt Ben—all because my fucking head isn’t screwed on right!”

Castiel recoils at Dean’s raised voice, but he can’t quite make sense of what it is he’s saying, what he’s accusing himself of. “Who’s Ben?” Dean tenses at the question, his posture rigid, and he immediately regrets asking it. “You don’t have to—”

“There was this girl, Lisa,” Dean interrupts, expression determined. “We started dating a couple of years after my discharge. Man, she was just great.” There’s nothing but sincere affection in his voice, lost in the memories he created with her. “Ben’s her kid. He was seven at the time, and... he’s such a good kid—smart and funny and kind... you would’ve loved him, Cas.” These people have clearly meant a great deal to Dean, and Castiel aches for his loss. There has been too much of it in Dean’s life. “Anyway. I was having pretty bad nightmares on a regular basis during that time. I guess I must’ve been making more noise than usual one night, because Ben came to wake me up. I flipped out and I... I pushed him away, almost started choking him. He broke something when he fell—I can’t even remember what—and slashed his arm open on the glass. He had to get eight stitches.”

Castiel can hear the shame in Dean’s words, the staggering guilt he all but chokes on. The event Dean described doesn’t make Castiel think of him any differently, doesn’t make him _see_ him any differently, but Dean is clearly expecting just that. “That’s what made you go to therapy.”

Dean nods. “I couldn’t stand the thought of hurting them.”

“Dean, it’s not your fault,” Castiel assures, reaching out to touch his shoulder. “Ben’s safe. You got help. You’re a good man, Dean.”

“I hurt you.”

“Dean, look at me,” Castiel takes Dean’s face between his hands, forcing their eyes to meet. _You’ve done nothing but the exact opposite._ “I’m fine.”

Dean’s eyes search his, and Castiel wonders if he can read the unvoiced thought in his expression. It makes Castiel want to throw caution to the wind, makes him want to close the gap between them and figure out just what this thing between them is. He stares at Dean’s lips and thinks about how easily he can see himself being reckless; all it would take is one simple press of lips.

“I’m going to make us coffee,” he says instead, breaking the spell and escaping to the kitchen. Neither one of them will be going back to sleep, he knows, and Dean has one massive hangover to nurse.

 

 

 

 

*

 

 

 

The flight to L.A. only lasts five-and-a-half hours, but it feels significantly longer. There’s a crick in Castiel’s neck by the time they land, and his legs are uncomfortably stiff. As he makes his way through the crowd gathered around the baggage claim, he feels grateful his essentials for the weekend fit into the single duffle bag he carried on the plane.

Anna is easy to spot in the arrival area, her red hair fanning behind her as she rushes toward him.

“Cas!” The smile on her face is bright and wide, and she throws her arms across his neck as soon as he’s within reach. “You look good,” she observes once they pull apart, her smile even brighter. He’s gained back most of the weight he lost while overseas, and his sleep’s been getting increasingly better, though most nights are still rough. It’s been a long time since his sister has looked at him with anything but concern, and Castiel is immensely glad for the change.

He finds himself mirroring her smile, excited for the weekend ahead. “I missed you.” It’s been almost a year since her visit to New York, and he welcomes the opportunity to spend time with his sister.

“Yeah, me too,” she returns, snatching the duffle bag from his hands and walking away. “Now come on, you sap,” she calls behind her shoulder, heading toward the parking lot. “We’ve got a reservation to make.”

 

“I wish you’d quit that filthy habit,” Anna says when Castiel pulls out a pack of Marlboro Reds from his pocket, her lip curling unhappily. They’re sitting out on her porch, enjoying the warm L.A. weather and iced tea.

“I will, eventually,” Castiel intones. He’s been promising Anna as much for years, but they both know it’s as likely to stick as a New Year’s resolution. By conventional standards, he’s not a heavy smoker, but it’s very much an ingrained habit rather than an occasional indulgence. He doesn’t normally engage in the activity in front of his sister—God knows she has enough reasons to be concerned about him—but his nerves are frayed tonight and he needs the nicotine fix.

“Cas, are you alright?” she asks as he systematically tears his napkin to shreds. “You seem...unsettled.”

Castiel opens his mouth to respond, but his lips are dry and no words come out, so he puts a cigarette between them instead. He digs the fingers of his other hand into the meat of his thigh. “I got a job offer from CNN,” he manages to say around his cigarette, the words scratching at the back of his throat. Working his Zippo proves incredibly difficult with shaking hands, but a determined flick of his thumb finally gets the flame going. A long, gratifying drag of nicotine gives him the strength to continue. “They want me to anchor a show focusing on international relations and foreign affairs. I’d still get to be out in the field, but I’d also be spending much of the time in the studio in Manhattan.”

“And?” his sister inquires cautiously, eyebrows raised. Castiel has received a number of contracted job offers throughout his career—though none as lucrative as the current one—and has turned them all down, choosing instead to remain in his freelance position. Anna has no reason to believe anything will be different this time around.

“I’m thinking about taking it,” he confesses guiltily, staring at the burning cigarette between his fingers.

“Cas, that’s great!” Anna exclaims, and Castiel wishes he were able to muster the same level of enthusiasm.

The mere idea of such a position is foreign and intimidating, so different than anything else he’s done. Castiel has spent the majority of his adult life travelling from one war-torn location to another, and he has absolutely no clue how to function in a different environment. He’s managed to, somehow, in the past eleven months; but even that was accomplished with the belief that it was a temporary arrangement.

When he looks up, her eyes are on him, hopeful and relieved, the beginning of a smile stretching her lips. It’s hard to imagine what she must have gone through all these years, worrying about his safety but not being able to do anything about it. Had their situation been reversed, Castiel doesn’t know how he’d handle it; he’s not certain he would have been able to.

 

 

 

 

*

 

 

 

With the last box unloaded into the living room, Castiel takes a moment to admire the new space he’s meant to call home. It’s smaller than his previous apartment in Manhattan, but it’s homier and warmer. The daily commute from Brooklyn to Manhattan will be a long one, no doubt, but Castiel hopes it will be worth it. He can imagine himself making memories here, growing comfortable and content in a way he never could have before.

“You’ve done good here, Cas,” Dean comments as he looks around, his words echoing in the apartment. Castiel hopes very much that Dean will be part of the new memories he will form here, that his voice will always carry between these walls.

“Yeah, Cas,” Sam confirms, clapping him on the shoulder. “Now, where do you want all of the furniture?”

Castiel had elected to sell his apartment completely furnished, needing a fresh start. Sam and Dean help him move the new furniture around until he’s satisfied with the final result.

“I’d better get going,” Sam says after they’ve finished setting up the bedroom. “I have to head into the office for a couple hours.”

Both Dean and Cas nod in response. “Cas and I can handle it,” Dean says. Castiel hasn’t bought much for the living-room, so they only have a couch, coffee table, and a couple of bookcases to rearrange. “You go save the trees, Sammy.”

“Jerk,” Sam mutters, punching his brother’s bicep.

“Thank you for your assistance, Sam,” Castiel says sincerely, extending his hand.

Instead of shaking his hand, Sam pulls Castiel in for a hug. Surprised, it takes him a minute to reciprocate, but eventually he wraps his arms around Sam’s broad back. “I’m happy for you, Cas,” Sam says when they break apart. “Oh, and Sarah asked me to tell you she expects a dinner invitation sooner rather than later.”

Castiel feels the corners of his mouth twitch, overcome with a sudden surge of affection for these people he’s lucky enough to call his friends. “You know you’re both always welcome here, Sam.”

After setting up the living-room, Dean and Cas park on the new couch and crack open a beer.

“So,” Dean starts, brushing the neck of his bottle with his fingers. “You feel good about this?”

“I do,” Castiel responds, the immediacy and sincerity of the statement surprising him. What he feels is excitement, he realizes, and it’s an emotion he hasn’t experienced in far too long.

“I gotta say,” Dean looks around the apartment, assessing, and somehow it makes Castiel feel bare, “Your old place was nice, but this suits you way better.”

Castiel turns his head to look at Dean, their eyes locking over the beer bottles. He’s hyper-aware of their close vicinity, of Dean’s denim-clad thigh rubbing against his. He can feel the same crackle of electricity that powers the room whenever they’re together, running all the way down to his spine and making his body warm. Dean looks at him like Castiel has the ability to see inside of him, and though Dean is terrified, he allows it anyway. On his part, Castiel feels a multitude of overwhelming emotions when he’s in close proximity to Dean, the most vigorous of which is longing; he yearns to reach out and touch, craves Dean’s lips and mouth and hands and every inch of him. Every time Castiel looks into those green eyes, he’s learning to feel all over again, a tide that quickly amasses into a vortex, pulling him under.

It’s a desperate, terrifying yearning, but Dean is right there. Dean is right _here_ , and all Castiel has to do is reach out. The decision is his, and he doesn’t think he could ever forgive himself if he runs from this.

_It can be different this time,_ he reminds himself, Pamela’s words ringing in his ears. _I don’t have to make the same mistakes._

Castiel reaches out, placing his trembling hand on top of Dean’s where it’s resting on his thigh. It’s a tentative touch, their fingers barely grazing, but it’s enough to make Castiel’s stomach lurch pleasantly.

“Cas?” Dean asks, eyes searching, voice carrying a note of surprise.

“Yes, Dean?” Castiel keeps his hand where it is, not letting his eyes leave Dean’s.

A smile breaks on Dean’s face, curving his gorgeous mouth in a slanted angle. It’s the most beautiful thing Castiel’s seen, and he wonders why it took him so long to get here. Had he known he could make Dean do that, he’s certain he would’ve found the courage much sooner. “Nothin’,” Dean says, and turns his hand over in Cas’, interlacing their fingers.

Body buzzing with anticipation, Castiel swallows audibly. This is it—he’s going to take a leap, and he’s going to let himself feel the fall. Leaning in, he places a kiss on Dean’s mouth, a dry press of lips. He pulls back to gauge Dean’s reaction, feels Dean’s fingers tighten in his before he pulls Castiel back into his space, slotting their mouths back together. This kiss is different and more heated, with Dean’s tongue parting Castiel’s lips, licking at the roof of his mouth when access is granted.

“Cas,” Dean pants when they break for air, “Are you sure about this?”

“Yes, Dean,” he assures, using their linked hands to pull Dean along as he gets up. They end up pressed together, chests touching and breaths mingling. Castiel is overwhelmed by Dean’s scent: a dark aroma of leather and wood, instantly addicting; he wants to immerse himself in it. “Are you?”

“Yes, yes, yes,” Dean gasps, nuzzling his nose against Castiel’s neck, mouth opening to tease at the sensitive skin. He's talking about more than this one moment, Castiel realizes, heart hammering in his chest. “A thousand times yes.”

Castiel backs them into the nearest wall, fitting his body against Dean’s, urgent and starved. Their mouths open wide to explore, tongues battling and teeth pulling on lips. Castiel throws his head back as Dean’s lips and teeth scrape along his jawline, stopping to bite and nibble on his chin, tonguing the cleft. It’s been too long since he’s been touched like this, but it’s _Dean’s_ touch he’s desperate for, Dean who is setting his body on fire.

He lets out a moan when Dean flips their position, backing Castiel against the wall, erection pressing against his hip. The sound seems to spur Dean on and he ruts against Castiel’s leg, hands grabbing the back of his thighs and moving up until they reach his ass. Dean kneads the muscle before grabbing on to it and lifting up, prompting Castiel to wrap his legs around his waist. The position aligns their hard cocks perfectly, Dean thrusting up while Castiel pushes down on his hips. Dean attaches his lips to the hollow of Castiel’s throat, licking into the divot before urgently undoing the top two buttons of Cas’ shirt with his teeth. He wastes no time fitting his mouth against Castiel’s clavicle, closing his teeth around the bone.

“Dean, Dean,” Castiel moans against the sting of the bite, hands fisting in the back of Dean’s t-shirt. He’s already drunk off of Dean, but it’s not nearly enough. “Bedroom.”

Dean tightens his grip on Castiel’s ass, securing his hold before carrying him down the hall. They don’t stop kissing until they reach the bedroom, and it’s by sheer luck and impressive coordination that they don’t tumble into anything on their way there. Dean drops Castiel on the queen-sized bed, climbing on top of him and immediately reconnecting their mouths, like he can’t stand to be apart. The fit of Dean’s lips against Castiel’s is perfect, and he strokes his tongue against the roof of Dean’s mouth, the inside of his cheeks, the straight rail of his teeth. They’ll both have stubble burn by tomorrow, he’s certain, but it’s beyond worth it. Castiel moans when Dean’s hands undo his belt buckle, thumb catching against his erection when he pulls down the zipper. He thrusts up to try and chase it, craving friction, but Dean uses the opportunity to pull his jeans down his legs, dropping them on the floor.

The expression on his face is awed when he looks into Castiel’s eyes. “Is this really happening?” he asks, thumbs rubbing small circles around Castiel’s hipbones, where his t-shirt has ridden up his stomach.

Castiel licks his lips, watching Dean’s eyes darken as he follows the course of his tongue. “If you want it to,” he responds simply, voice husky with arousal. To make it clear just how much _Castiel_ wants it, he lifts his hips off the bed, desperate for Dean’s hand on him.

“God, yes,” Dean says before crawling down Castiel’s body, pushing his t-shirt higher up to kiss along his stomach. When the fabric pools around Castiel’s armpits, he lifts his arms up, allowing Dean to remove it. Once the shirt is on the floor, Dean presses himself snuggly against Castiel, his denim-clad erection rough against Castiel’s skin, rubbing painfully against his thin boxer briefs.

“Dean,” Castiel keens, letting out a particularly throaty moan when Dean’s teeth latch on to his left pectoral. He grabs a fistful of Dean’s hair, forcefully pulling him away. “This is hardly fair,” he points out, gesturing to his unclothed state and Dean’s fully-dressed one.

Smirking, Dean grabs the hem of his shirt, discarding it to reveal a smooth, toned chest and stomach. Castiel groans and all but attacks, closing his mouth around a nipple and biting, soothing the sting with the swirl of his tongue. Judging by the pornographic sound that leaves Dean’s mouth, he’s found a sensitive spot, and Castiel smiles against Dean’s chest.

“Fuck, Cas,” he pants, running his hand down Castiel’s back, catching against the ridges of his spine. He sneaks his hand into the back of Castiel’s boxers, kneading his cheeks, thumb running down his crack and catching against his hole.

“Dean!” Castiel cries, overwhelmed with sensation. Dean gives him that beautiful, self-satisfied smirk before he pulls the boxers down, licking the base of his cock until he reaches the purple head, gathering the trace of pre-come with his thumb.

“How do you like it, Cas?” he asks as he fists Cas’ cock in a snug grip. Castiel squirms under the touch, and it takes all of his willpower not to just _mewl_ and beg Dean to jerk him off.

“Rough,” he manages to respond, putting his hand on top of Dean’s and guiding it to a quick, tight pull on his shaft. “I like it rough.”

A shiver makes its way through Dean’s body, and he closes his eyes. “Shit, Cas. The things you do to me.”

“Show me,” Castiel demands, thrusting up into Dean’s hand. Dean takes his free hand, surprising Castiel when he places it on his chest, right over his thundering heart. This is what he does to Dean, Castiel realizes, lips splitting on a smile. “Are you always this much of a sap, Winchester?”

Dean shakes his head, the smile on his face unlike any Castiel has seen, fond and tender. “It’s lots of firsts with you, Novak.”

They stare at each other for a long moment, their laboured breaths loud in the room. Dean’s hand squeezes Castiel’s cock, brushing against the head in the upstroke. Just like that, the urgency is dialed back up, Castiel’s body taut with tension, desperate for Dean’s touch.

“Take off the rest of your clothes,” Castiel urges, hands going to Dean’s belt buckle, satisfied when he hears the clank of metal.

“Fuck, you always this bossy, Novak?” is Dean’s response. Judging by the solid erection pressing against the heel of Castiel’s hand, he doesn’t find the idea unappealing.

“I’ve wanted this for a while,” Castiel says, throwing Dean’s belt to the other side of the room. They can worry about it in the morning. “I need you _now_ , Dean. Are you going to make me wait much longer?”

A shiver works its way through Dean’s body. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says, removing his hand from around Castiel to discard his jeans and boxers.

“Good,” Castiel says, wrapping a hand around his dick and giving it a lazy stroke. “Then hurry up, or I’ll have to finish what you started by myself.”

Dean’s eyes widen as he takes in the sight, licking his lips. “Fuck, we are _so_ getting back to that another time,” he promises.

With that, he fits himself against Castiel, head to toe, chests slotting perfectly and erections rubbing together. The skin-on-skin contact is dizzyingly satisfying, and Castiel’s mouth opens on a silent moan as he arches his back off the bed, trying to get closer to Dean, melt onto his skin.

They rut against each other, cocks sliding together, precome easing the way. Dean fits his hand against both of them, bringing them impossibly closer, the combined pleasure of his snug grip and the friction from their rubbing erections almost maddening. Cas wraps his leg around the small of Dean’s back, pressing their bodies even tighter, digging his nails into the muscles between Dean’s shoulders.

“Wanna see you come, Cas,” Dean whispers as he strokes them, flicking his wrist so the heel of his palm catches against the sensitive heads. Castiel hisses when Dean’s hand pumps faster and harder, setting a rough rhythm that pushes all of the right buttons. Dean attaches his lips to Castiel’s neck, nibbling on the skin and using his tongue to soothe the sting before reaching his ear. He rolls the lobe between his teeth, gently biting down on the cartilage before speaking. “Wanna see you fall apart, want to feel your come all over my hand.”

The words send even more blood to Castiel’s groin, his cock impossibly hard, the head almost purple. He lets out a throaty moan Dean he continues stroking, letting his hands slip from his shoulders to the small of his back, cupping the round globes of Dean’s ass and kneading the soft flesh. Dean’s rhythm falters and his mouth opens on a moan. Encouraged, Castiel allows his hand to slip further, thumb dragging against the crack until he reaches the furled collection of muscles.

“Fuck, Cas!”

“So much better,” Castiel murmurs, delirious with pleasure as Dean brings his free hand to tug on his balls, index finger lightly teasing the perineum. “So much better than I imagined.”

“You thought about this?” Dean asks, eyes growing darker and hungrier. “Did you touch yourself and think of me, Cas?”

“Yes, yes, yes,” Castiel chants and cants his hips. He’s so close, so close, and he desperately wants to come. “Thought about you just like this, touching me, surrounding me.”

“I thought about you, too, Cas,” Dean admits, his hand slowing down much to Cas’ frustration. “I fingered myself open last night, thinking about you, wishing it was your fingers and tongue and cock in my ass, ramming into me. It was _so_ good Cas, so good... I came so hard just thinking about you, Cas. But I bet the real thing would be better, bet you’d fuck me even better than I can imagine.”

Castiel’s eyes widen at the confession, the arousal making him shiver. He lets his thumb explore around Dean’s hole, feeling how puffy it is, loose enough for him to fit just the tip of his finger in. Dean must have been rough and desperate, and Castiel shudders at the thought. Maybe next time Dean will let him open him up, watch his fingers stretch his hole, drive him crazy until Dean is begging for his cock.

“I like it rough, too,” Dean whispers directly into his ear, and that’s all it takes for Castiel to lose any semblance of control, arching off the bed. His vision whites out, ears ringing as he orgasms for what feels like an eternity, striping both of their chests and Dean’s hand with his come.

“Fuck, Cas,” Dean pants while Castiel’s still trying to catch his breath, body pleasantly loose and pilant. “You’re so fucking hot like this.” He brings his hand up to his lips, tongue lapping up the drops of come caught between the webs of his fingers. Castiel groans as he watches, spent cock giving a hopeful twitch. He grabs Dean’s hips and flips them around, ignoring Dean’s surprised expression as he lands on his back. Castiel wastes no time crawling down his body, positioning himself between Dean’s legs, inhaling the musky scent. His cock is thick and engorged, and Castiel fits his hand around the base, letting his tongue trail the vein on the underside. Dean mewls above him, hips pistoning off the bed as his hand fits itself on top of Castiel’s head, pulling at the hair. Castiel pins Dean’s hips with his free hand before he lets his lips stretch around the head of his cock, relaxing his throat as he sinks further down. Dean is coiled impossibly tight, his taste musky and salty.

“Cas, Cas, Cas!” Dean chants. Castiel hollows his cheeks and sucks, loving the weight and taste of Dean’s cock on his tongue. “Cas, I’m so close!” It only takes a few bobbing motions before Dean’s hips arch off the bed, baring his neck as he throws his head back against the pillow, coming down Castiel’s throat. Castiel laps it all up, working him through the aftershocks, licking him clean.

“Shit,” Dean pants, out of breath. “C’mere,” he demands, reaching for Cas.

Cas obliges, making his way back up the bed. As soon as he’s in reach, Dean pulls him on top of him, claiming his lips in a ferocious kiss. They open for each other immediately, the taste of their combined come passing back and forth between their tongues. It’s incredibly intimate and erotic, leaving them breathless when they separate.

Castiel looks down at their stomachs, where his come is quickly drying and sticking to the skin. “I think we’re due for a shower,” he exclaims as he hops off the bed, extending his hand to Dean expectantly.

The shower isn’t particularly big, and it’s a tight fit for two grown men. Dean wastes no time pressing Castiel against the cold shower tiles, lips mapping the column of his throat until they reach Castiel’s mouth. The kiss they share is leisurely and open-mouthed, with none of the urgency that catalyzed them only minutes ago. Instead, it’s a purposeful exploration, wet and unhurried. Castiel buries his hand in Dean’s hair as they kiss, the other one sliding down his strong back. This is completely uncharted territory for the both of them, so much they’ve yet to discover about each other’s bodies despite the other ways in which they’ve shared intimacy. It fills Castiel with excitement, and no small amount of fear.

Steam quickly gathers around them, the staccato rhythm of beating water accompanying the sound of their kissing. They make out until the water turns lukewarm, and Castiel turns around to reach for the washcloth. Dean plasters himself against his back, gently biting on the top knob of his spine before taking the washcloth from Castiel’s hands. He starts at Castiel’s shoulders, rubbing down the back of his arms before moving to his back. Strong thumbs press along the wings of his shoulderblades, releasing tension Castiel hadn’t even been aware of. Dean’s hands are gentle as he works, their movement reverent, tracing Castiel’s skin as if it’s something precious. The intimacy of it makes Castiel’s head spin, heart thundering in his chest.

When they finish washing up, Castiel turns the water off, pipes giving a lazy creak in protest.

“Cas.” The gravity in Dean’s voice alarms Castiel, making his hands falter on the water taps. “Do you… Do you think we can make this thing work?”

Castiel turns around to face Dean, watching beads of water sluice from his hair, catching on the vulnerable curve of his eyelashes. The bathroom is cold without the comforting cascade of warm water, goosebumps rising on their arms.

“I mean… we’re both pretty fucked up.”

It’s the truth, and Castiel suspects it will be, to some extent, for a very long time—maybe even for the rest of their lives. They’ve both screwed up important relationships because of it, and there is no guarantee they can avoid making the same mistakes; the ghosts that haunt them have not been laid to rest, not completely, and they may still frequent their lives.

“I don’t know,” Castiel says honestly, meeting Dean’s green eyes. There’s a fear there that mirrors Castiel’s own, but there’s also hope, small and hesitant to come through. He takes Dean’s hand in his own, admiring the long lines of his fingers before kissing the roughened skin of his knuckles. “All I’m certain of is that I want us to. I want to be with you. Maybe that can be enough.”

“Yeah,” says Dean, squeezing Castiel’s fingers. “Maybe.”

 

 

 

 

*

 

 

 

There is only one box Castiel has yet to unpack. He hasn’t looked at it in years, choosing instead to let it sit at the back of his closet, collecting dust with the rest of the skeletons he chose to hide. It feels important that he sort it, now, confront the daunting task he’s avoided. His hands tremble as he opens the cardboard, careful, like he’s disassembling a bomb that might go off at any moment.

The first thing he takes out is a worn copy of _The Brothers Karamazov_ , his mother’s favourite book. He flips through the well-worn pages, tracing his fingers along the dark ink. She loved the book intensely, a passion she passed on to Castiel, and he recalls the late night discussions they’d had about free will and faith when he was in high-school and first read the novel. Despite the pang in his heart, he smiles at the memory, tracing the novel’s cover before putting it aside. It’s time it finds itself on his bookshelf.

The framed picture he pulls out is distantly familiar, having hung in his mother’s living-room until her death. Picking it up along with the book, Castiel gets up and makes his way to his well-stocked bookcase. He slots Dostoevsky’s novel on the top shelf, right between his other favourites. He places the picture next to it, stepping back to admire it. His mother has her hand wrapped around his father’s waist, the smile on her face bright and happy. Castiel is sat on his father’s shoulders, shyly hiding into his neck while his father holds his ankles to keep him from falling off. Anna is standing between their parents, her grin wide and revealing two missing front teeth. The verdant trees in the background make Castiel think they’re in a park, and he wishes he could remember the day, cling to the image. He can’t be sure, but he thinks the smile on his father’s face is genuine, unruly hair ruffled by the breeze and eyes crinkling in the corners.

He backs away and plops back on the ground, sorting through the rest of the items in the box. There are photo albums detailing years of their lives, more books and records, mementos from his parents’ lives. The last item he pulls out is another, smaller box, and his breath hitches as he recognizes what it is. He’s even more careful when he opens the small package, pulling out the Leica M6 Classic encased within. The 35mm camera is light in his hands, and he turns it over to admire before putting it back.

The camera was a Christmas gift his mother purchased for his father just weeks before his death, unaware of the fact he wouldn’t live to celebrate it with them. There are film cartridges and a manual in the box, and Castiel reaches for it with shaking hands. He flips open the booklet, glancing over the instructions when a drop lands on the page. Confused, he lifts his hand to his cheek to find it streaked wet, suddenly aware of the moisture building in his eyes. He puts the manual aside and covers his face with his hands, trying to gain control of his emotions. His body doesn’t cooperate, seized with the forceful sob that shakes him to his core, felt all the way down his spine. _You have to let yourself feel things._ He can’t stop the eruption that wreaks him, sobbing into his hands for the family that has been taken away from him, the father he never got to know but wanted desperately to impress, the mother who never got to know her son because he was so preoccupied trying to fill in for a ghost. The worst of it is that neither of them will get to see the person he’s becoming, now.

He sits on the floor and sobs for what feels like hours, the tremors overtaking his body violent and exhausting. It’s the first time he’s cried like this, the first time he can recall crying in years; the gate he’s kept all of his grief locked in is broken, nothing left but rusty, wrecked metal.

When he manages to peel himself off the floor, Castiel walks into the kitchen and drinks two tall glasses of water, gripping the counter for support. The shaking has barely subsided, and his legs feel liquid trying to support his weight. He pulls out his cellphone from his jeans pocket, speed dialing Anna.

“Anna,” he says as soon as she picks up, his voice cracked and pleading.

“Cas, what’s wrong?” she asks, instantly on alert.

“Nothing,” he says, wondering how he can explain himself. “I just... I need you to do something for me.”

“What is it?”

“I need you to tell me about dad,” he pleads, voice cracking on the last word, tears threatening to spill. “I need you to tell me what you remember, all right? Can you do that?”

There’s silence on the other end, and Castiel can imagine his sister’s confusion. Perhaps he shouldn’t have called her this distraught, but she’s the only person that can give him what he needs right now. “Please.”

“He used to read Dr. Seuss to us when he was home,” she relays, her voice quiet but determined. “He said no-one was ever too old to appreciate a good children’s book. That if you read them carefully enough, they’ll teach you everything you need to know.”

Castiel closes his eyes, letting the new tears spill down his face. They’re quieter, now, less overwhelming. “Tell me more.”

And Anna does.

 

 

 

 

*

 

 

Hours pass in the space of minutes, the light evening breeze making Castiel shiver in his thin t-shirt. The Leica is a perfect fit in his hand, lightweight and convenient. He’s been out since the morning, stopping to take pictures every few steps: buildings and structures, people and families, a myriad of interesting stories told with a single snapshot. He hasn’t taken pictures like this since college, hasn’t taken the time to enjoy the simple act of capturing a moment, encapsulating it in memory and history. All that he’s photographed in the past decade is devastation, cruelty and death; he’s forgotten there’s anything beyond that, forgotten there’s a whole world out there waiting to be captured by his lens.

He’s cold by the time he takes the subway home, but more content and satisfied than he ever remembers feeling. He stops to take a few more photos on the walk home from the station, finding interest in the mundane and extraordinary.

As he reaches his apartment building, Castiel’s surprised to see Dean waiting outside, sitting on the stoop. He’s looking down at the ground, face illuminated by the streetlight, and Castiel uses the opportunity to take his picture. At the sound of the shutter, Dean looks up, nose scrunched up in confusion. Castiel beams at him as he walks over.

“Did you just take my picture?” Dean asks when Castiel reaches him.

“Maybe,” he says with a smile, lifting his shoulder.

Dean looks down at the camera in Castiel’s hand. He hooks a finger inside the collar of Castiel’s t-shirt, pulling him forward until their mouths meet. Castiel melts into the kiss immediately, opening his mouth to Dean’s tongue, enjoying the pilant way their lips move together, easy and familiar.

“What are you doing here?” he asks when they pull apart, digging out his keys to open the front door to the building.

“Wanted to see you,” Dean says simply as he follows him to the elevator. “That okay?”

“Of course, Dean,” Cas says with a smile, pressing the button to his floor.

They ride in silence, stealing glances at each other every few seconds. The doors ding open and they walk silently to Castiel’s apartment. Dean plasters himself to Castiel’s back when he tries to fit the key in the lock, kissing the back of his nape and sucking on the top knob of his spine.

“Dean,” Cas whines, hand fumbling with the key as the other one holds on to his camera.

“Yeah?” Dean asks cheekily, voice breathy against Castiel’s ear.

Castiel manages to get the door open, rushing inside his apartment with Dean laughing behind him. He puts the Leica down in its box on the bookcase before charging over to Dean.

“You are insufferable,” he chides as he kisses the corner of Dean’s mouth, words packing absolutely no heat. Dean’s hands automatically go to his waist. “Is that what you came here for?”

It’s meant to be a tease, so he’s surprised when Dean’s expression turns serious. “I just wanted to see you,” he says, rubbing the points of Castiel’s hipbones. “This is just a plus.”

Castiel rolls his eyes fondly. “God, you’re such a sap, Winchester.”

“And you’re one sarcastic bastard, Novak,” Dean retorts with a smile.

“Mhm, maybe,” Castiel acknowledges, pushing Dean into the armchair in his living room and straddling his lap. He bends down to lick at his neck, speaking directly into his ear, “But I think you like me sarcastic. And bossy, if I remember correctly.”

Dean flushes at the comment, and Castiel grins in satisfaction. He goes back to kissing Dean, happy to lose himself in the wetness of his mouth, the satisfied, small _hmm_ s he lets out when their tongues tangle up. When he feels Dean’s erection pressing against his ass, Cas hops off his lap, grinning when Dean lets out a questioning, disappointed grunt.

“What the hell, Cas?” Dean demands, reaching over to try and get Cas back to him. Cas just grins and keep walking backward, putting a safe distance between them.

“Patience, Dean,” he chides, reaching for the hem of his t-shirt and pulling it off his chest, discarding it on the floor. Dean’s mouth goes dry and he swallows audibly, watching the proceedings. Castiel revels in Dean’s attention, loving the heated look in his eyes as he takes in his bare chest. He unbuttons his jeans, the sound of the zipper loud in the room as he pulls it down and lets the denim pool at his ankles.

“Cas, _come here_ ,” Dean whines, sounding like a child on the verge of a tantrum. He shifts in his seat, his erection clearly getting uncomfortable.

“Patience,” Castiel repeats, this time hooking a finger in the elastic waistband of his boxers, letting it trail across. Dean honest-to-God _growls_ , palming his crotch. Castiel tries his best not to let it show how much the sight affects him, shimmying out of his underwear. He sighs in relief as his erection is let free, giving it a cursory stroke. He feels vulnerable and liberated as he stands in front of Dean, completely naked and unmasked.

“Fuck, Cas,” Dean pants, eyes raking over Castiel’s body, as if unsure where to start, before landing on his cock. Unable to deny either of them any longer, Castiel closes the space between them, straddling Dean’s lap. Dean’s clothes chafe against his skin, the denim pulling against his bare thighs and ass. There’s something exciting about it, and though Castiel loves Dean’s naked body, he decides he wants it just like that: Dean’s clothed body against his bare one, fucking into him with just his cock revealed.

“I want you inside me, Dean,” he murmurs into Dean’s ear, grinding his ass against the solid erection. “Want you to fuck me and make me come. You got that?”

Dean nods frantically. “Fuck yes. I can totally do that.”

“Good,” Castiel says, removing himself from Dean’s lap and retreating down the hall. He smiles when he hears Dean’s incredulous cry. “Lube, Dean!” he calls behind him, hurrying to his room. He practically tears his nightstand open, rummaging until he finds the lube and a condom. As soon as he’s back in the living-room, he climbs back onto Dean’s lap, attaching his lips to his neck. Dean looks like he’s two second away from dying from blue balls.

“Fuck, Cas, stop teasing—” Castiel shuts him up with a kiss, fucking his tongue into that glorious mouth. Once Dean is kissed breathless, Castiel latches on to his bared throat once again, enjoying the prickly sensation of stubble against his lips. He kisses up to Dean’s jaw, nibbling at the bolt before speaking into his ear.

“Hold me open,” he demands, voice low and urgent. Teasing is well and good, but he needs to get fucked sometime this century. The expression on Dean’s face remains confused for a moment, but his hands catch up quickly, kneading Castiel’s ass before parting the cheeks.

Castiel slicks his fingers with lube, wasting no time in getting them where he wants, pressing against his rim. He massages around it for a few minutes, willing his muscles to relax, and the first finger slips in with little difficulty. He meets Dean’s eyes as he works the digit in and out of his body, moving his hand so that the knuckles bump against Dean’s crotch while he works himself open. When the desire for more burns through his body, Castiel adds a second finger, biting his lip as the muscle stretches to accommodate it. Before long, he’s scissoring both fingers, moving them around until he finds his prostate. Delirious with pleasure, Castiel practically humps his lower half against Dean. It’s only when he feels an added pressure against his hole that Castiel realizes he closed his eyes. Dean’s lubed finger meets the other two inside Castiel’s body, and Castiel is so overwhelmed with the pleasure and intimacy of it he’s afraid he might come then and there.

“Fuck, so tight,” Dean says as his finger circles inside of Castiel. “You’re gonna feel so good, Cas, I already know it.”

Instead of answering, Castiel pulls his fingers out, feeling strangely empty now that only Dean’s finger remains inside of him. He makes quick work of Dean’s belt buckle and zipper, pulling the jeans halfway down his thighs along with his boxers. It’s just enough for his cock to peek through, hard and swollen with blood. Perfect.

Castiel repositions himself in the tight space, bracketing Dean’s outer thighs with his knees. He lifts his hips up and sinks down on Dean’s cock, muscle stretching until he’s impossibly full. He shudders against the initial discomfort, Dean’s hand stroking soothingly against his back. Castiel lets his forehead rest against Dean’s shoulder, adjusting to the fullness inside of him. Once he’s ready, Castiel lifts his hips up and sinks back down, fucking himself on Dean’s cock. They establish a rough, quick rhythm, Dean thrusting up while Castiel thrusts back down, both frenzied and desperate.

“Dean!” Castiel cries as Dean repeatedly hits his prostate, ramming into it and making him see stars. The sensations intensify when Dean’s teeth clutch onto his nipple, biting and sucking on the hard bud until it’s raw and red.

Castiel comes with a sharp, loud cry, trying to milk every second of the blinding orgasm. He can feel it all the way down his spine, seizing his entire body in rapture. When he comes to, he studies the blissed expression on Dean’s face: mouth open, eyes closed, head thrown back against the back of the armchair. Castiel increases his pace as he bounces on his cock, desperate to wring an orgasm out of him. Dean’s own thrusts falter, hips losing coordination as he teeters on the edge of release. When he finally lets go, it’s with his mouth open in a silent cry.

Castiel brings his hand to Dean’s cheek, reverent as he admires the way Dean’s hair sticks to his forehead and his flushed skin. This gorgeous man chose Castiel, and he doesn’t think he can ever get over the shock of that. “You’re beautiful.”

Dean opens his eyes, tired but smiling. He’s still panting when he speaks. “Now who’s the sap, Novak?”

Castiel punches him in the arm. “Fuck you.”

“Mhm, give me a moment,” says Dean. “My refractory period isn’t what it used to be.”

 

 

 

 

*

 

 

Castiel’s fingers fumble with his tie, nerves making it impossible to complete the knot. He examines his reflection in the mirror, tugging at his unruly hair. He’s chosen a simple, white oxford under a navy suit jacket, the tie a deep purple colour. The outfit is completed with faded jeans and dark sneakers; it’s not like the camera is going to pick up on those particular items of clothing, shooting only from the waist up, so he might as well be comfortable.

“Nervous?” Dean’s voice startles him, and Castiel turns to see him leaning against the doorway, wearing his police uniform.

“A little,” Castiel admits, going back to fiddling with his tie. He’s still uncertain about the whole thing; though he negotiated to have full control over the contents of his news program, he’s still unaccustomed to the idea. He’s a little uneasy with the idea of a studio, but he knows he’ll still get to report from the field. The initial contract is only for two years, so at worst this job can end as a bad, temporary experiment. It’s a risk, in a way, but Castiel is willing to take it.

“Don’t be,” says Dean, walking over to pull him into his arms. His embrace is instantly calming, and Castiel exhales against his neck, feeling the solid planes of his back. Dean lets go and stares at his collar, laughing at the state of his tie. He pulls the fabric between his fingers, repositioning it across Castiel’s neck and making quick work of the knot. When he’s done, there’s a snug, proper Windsor knot at the base of Castiel’s throat. He smiles as he rubs the silk of the tie between his fingers. “You’ll be okay, Cas.”

And for the first time, Castiel believes that he will be.

**Author's Note:**

> There where the waves shatter on the restless rocks
> 
> the clear light bursts and enacts its rose,
> 
> and the sea-circle shrinks to a cluster of buds,
> 
> to one drop of blue salt, falling.
> 
>  
> 
> O bright magnolia bursting in the foam,
> 
> magnetic transient whose death blooms
> 
> and vanishes—being, nothingness—forever:
> 
> broken salt, dazzling lurch of the sea.
> 
>  
> 
> You & I, Love, together we ratify the silence,
> 
> while the sea destroys its perpetual statues,
> 
> collapses its towers of wild speed and whiteness:
> 
>  
> 
> because in the weavings of those invisible fabrics,
> 
> galloping water, incessant sand,
> 
> we make the only permanent tenderness.
> 
>  
> 
> _Love Sonnet IX_ , Pablo Neruda


End file.
